Night Music
by Silbrith
Summary: A night at the opera turns deadly as an ancient foe exacts vengeance. December 2005. Crossed Lines story #7, a fusion of Supernatural with Caffrey Conversation.
1. An Invitation

_Notes: This story takes place after the events in Cloister of Secrets. __The first chapter contains the essentials of the backstory for new readers. I've also written a post__ on the status of the key players at the beginning of the story for our blog__. The post is called "Destination: Night Music." See the notes at the end of the chapter for more information._

* * *

**Chapter 1: An Invitation**

**Columbia University. Wednesday, November 30, 2005. **

"Any chance you could come to New York tomorrow?" Neal asked Sara. "I can promise you a gala evening at the Metropolitan Opera."

"It does sound tempting. There is the slight problem of my job, a plane to catch . . . " Neal heard a rustling of paper. "Drat, I'm scheduled to meet with a client in Sussex about their stolen Gainsborough. If only you'd asked me yesterday."

Neal smiled at her photo which he kept stashed in his art studio. Sara likely had returned to her flat in London an hour earlier. He was on a break from the grind of seminars. Wednesdays Neal spent the entire day at Columbia University. Since Sara moved back to London, they'd taken advantage of his day away from the office to call each other during break times.

"Sonya called me today," he explained. "The board of directors asked the musicians to attend the event, and she didn't want to go alone."

"Who is Sonya and should I be jealous?"

"She's Russian, a gorgeous brunette, and fabulously wealthy thanks to me, but you have no reason to be concerned. She has a boyfriend who'd normally accompany her, but he's off touring in Europe."

"A likely tale. Her paramour sounds suspiciously like the fictitious Matthew I invented to keep the matchmakers from knowing about you."

"You wound me. Didn't I convince you of my sincerity last weekend?"

He heard a soft sigh on the phone. They'd just spent four blissful days in Lyon, Besançon, and Paris over the Thanksgiving holiday. "That was heaven, but I warn you I have a short memory. We'll need to plan something similar soon."

"I'm already working on Christmas," he promised.

"And don't think I didn't notice what you were doing—deflecting me from the incredible Sonya. How is it that you made her wealthy and not me?"

"I was simply the facilitator. Her true benefactor was an egg. Sonya Pashkina is a violist with the Metropolitan Opera Orchestra."

"I remember now! She discovered a Fabergé Imperial egg in an old trunk, but it was stolen after she took it in for verification."

Sara was working in Boston during the case but Neal told her about it afterward. "Sonya kept her job with the orchestra and has used a substantial chunk of the proceeds to set up music scholarships. The Met is premiering a new production of Don Giovanni in a little over a week. This is a reception for patrons and donors. She said I was welcome to bring a plus-one."

"You could take Mozzie."

Neal snorted. "What? As a chaperone? Now that he's a member of the Clueless con, did you ask him to keep an eye on me?"

"What an excellent idea! I should have. No, the reason I suggested him is that he loves opera and Mozart in particular. He'd no doubt have a grand time mingling with the rich and famous at the reception, suitably disguised, of course."

"And with an appropriate alias. I'll ask him. He'll no doubt figure out a way to incorporate it into the con."

"When I called Elizabeth to thank her for her matchmaking efforts on our behalf, she had some ideas on how to trick Henry. From the sound of it, she and Peter are enjoying being included in our crew."

"They're as bad as Mozzie now," Neal said. "Peter and Travis buttonholed me yesterday with an idea for Henry." The Clueless con for months had been Neal and Sara's secret. It had entered a new stage—Operation Checkmate. Having their friends participate in it ushered in a new level of excitement.

"Does the team at White Collar know about us?"

"I told Jones and Diana on Monday. All the members of the Arkham Round Table are now aware we're a couple. Diana asserts that it's because of her expert writing that our first dates weren't the train wreck we'd predicted."

"I'll call her to add my thanks. She may have some suggestions for Alex."

Alex Hunter was a cat burglar he'd met in Italy during the years he worked for Klaus Mansfeld. Neal had made an offhand reference about her to Henry who'd squirreled away the tidbit. When Neal invented Alicia as an alias for Sara, Henry had taken it upon himself to investigate the mysterious girlfriend. His efforts had been stymied until he latched onto the notion that Alicia was in reality Alex. The grand reveal was less than a month away unless Henry uncovered the truth earlier. They were doing their best to supply him with clues to lead him to believe he'd unmasked them without any outside help. Frankly, he should have already caught on. How many additional clues did he need?

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Mozzie made his way through the underground network of tunnels underneath Columbia University. Quint, a senior in the computer science department and Mozzie's protégé on the SETI committee, had offered to collect slime samples from an old brick tunnel near Kent Hall. Mozzie had decided on the spur of the moment to visit him. There was no need but he didn't want the lad to feel unappreciated.

Truth be told, Mozzie's interest in the tunnels had waned of late. He hadn't discovered a new passage in a month. After promising results on the initial slime specimens, he'd made no further inroads on tracing a link between slime and extraterrestrials. He comforted his conscience with the thought that he'd already accumulated an invaluable collection. He wasn't giving up. He was simply tabling the endeavor till a new breakthrough occurred.

The current challenge was how to tell Quint. Mozzie hated to burst his nascent bubble of enthusiasm. Like all new converts, Quint was in danger of overdoing it. Lately, it seemed whenever Mozzie descended into the tunnels, Quint was already there.

The lad needed to experience life in the upper world too. Did he ever go out on a date? Perhaps he needed a little assistance. Mozzie had met several students in a film course he attended, all of whom were potential dating material. He decided to give Quint another month before guiding him along a new pathway. In a couple of weeks, Columbia would be on recess for the winter holiday. The start of the new year would be soon enough to give him a gentle nudge.

As for his own plans, he was needed elsewhere. Diana was sharing the Arkham Files reins with him, and the public clamored for a new story. Gordon Taylor had invited him to Cannes for a delicious caper. There was the Clueless con to manage for Neal and Sara. Henry and his boyfriend Eric finally appeared to be on the right track, but they'd require careful monitoring. Mozzie had intended to devote the bulk of his time on researching the activities of the Culper Ring in New York and their connection to the Illuminati and the Tudor Crown, but that might need to be postponed. Luchino, his contact in the Vatican Library, had heard whispers of an original Dante manuscript, the Holy Grail of all bibliophiles.

There was simply no time for slime.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Quint waited several minutes after Mozzie disappeared through the manhole before giving the all-clear signal to his demon pal Scarbo. The slime enthusiast's arrival had been unexpected, but Quint was prepared. He always carried collection vials with him just in case Mozzie chanced upon him.

His dear sister Astrena had yet to discover that she had a traitor in her midst. Scarbo continued to live in her house, spying on her and whoever else Quint ordered him to. It had taken Quint over a thousand years to discover how to make a rift between Oblivion and the upper world. Astrena's consumption of his lover was a wound which never healed. Only by exacting vengeance would he be able to ease the pain she'd caused him.

Who was the best candidate for the initial sacrifice? Should it be Caffrey? Now that Scarbo had given her a love potion, Astrena's passion for him was stronger than ever. Or should the artist be held in reserve? Maia, the beloved handmaiden, was also tempting.

And there was the demon now, popping up from behind a steam pipe.

"My Lord Thanatos, I bow before you." Scarbo doffed his knitted cap and made a low obeisance, all the while watching hungrily for Quint to put his hand in his pocket.

"For you, my faithful servant." Quint placed one coral mushroom on the palm of his hand. Scarbo slurped it into his mouth in an instant. The mushrooms of Oblivion were as addictive as they were pleasurable. Scarbo would do anything for them, even spy on the goddess he'd served for over two thousand years.

"Does Astrena plan to attend the donors' reception tomorrow evening?" When Quint discovered Astrena had broadened her interests by becoming a benefactor to the Metropolitan Opera, Quint knew he'd found the perfect vehicle for his revenge. Among the vengeful spirits in Oblivion, none had more reason to hate the goddess than Mozart. The first eidolon Quint had dispatched to the upper world was more mentally unstable than he'd realized. Quint had quickly discovered to his chagrin that Ireton simply couldn't be directed. Mozart was much more malleable. He was basically a good-natured fellow who liked playing pranks and had a soft spot in his heart for musicians. Mozart was no killer, but he'd be an effective amanuensis.

Scarbo swallowed the mushroom in one gulp. "She'll be there tomorrow night and return for the première in nine days. I also have news about Caffrey. I eavesdropped on Mozzie as you requested."

"And?"

Scarbo's face lit up with a demonic sneer. "Neal plans to be at the reception. He has a friend among the musicians. He'll also attend the première. Shall I give Electra another dose of love potion?"

"Not for the moment. The first one was sufficiently strong that it's still working on her. Did you learn anything else useful?"

"Mozzie and Neal are acquainted with a hunter."

"I already know they're pals with the Winchesters," Quint said impatiently.

"This is another one. His name is Alex Hunter and he appears to have some connection with Neal's cousin Henry."

A hunter who flaunts his calling? That kind of brazen attitude bears watching. "Keep me informed if you hear anything more about him."

Alex could be a Man of Letters like Crowley suspected Henry was. Astrena's business manager feared that the Men of Letters had formed a mutual assistance pact with hunters and the FBI. Alex could be the liaison between the two groups. That thought set an unholy fire in Quint's belly.

"Make sure Crowley hears about Alex. We want to increase his paranoia."

Scarbo bowed low. "As my lord wishes."

Alex could work to Quint's advantage. He'd devised a two-pronged approach with Astrena. He wasn't able to kill her, but he could make her life in New York so hellish she'd have no choice but flee. Quint understood why she was attracted to the metropolis, but this was going to be his playground, not hers. He'd start by driving her precious pure-blood vampire Jeremy Sangford out of town. While Crowley and his henchman Drasko dealt with the fallout, Mozart would take command center stage at the Metropolitan Opera House. The two-act opera was about to begin.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"We got a lucky break," Jones reported to the team at the morning briefing. "Got a tip on that identity hacker ring we suspect is working in Manhattan."

Neal was sitting next to Travis, White Collar's tech expert, and it was doubtful Jones's news could compare with what Travis might have to share. But since Travis wasn't speaking up, Neal let it ride, at least for now. This was Travis's first day back at work. The past week, he and his partner Richard were on vacation. Was someone else keeping secrets?

"It's about time," Peter said. Normally he picked up on tells in an instant. Apparently their boss's hawkeyed focus for the moment was only on fraud.

"Mozzie's friend Quint—the computer-science student who helped us with the missing person case—contacted me," Jones said. "Yesterday he spotted the same man whom he'd seen earlier in the fall talking with the missing student."

The case was a perplexing one. The student had never resurfaced. Jones and Diana believed that given his programming background he might have been recruited to join the hackers. Quint had supplied a description of the mysterious stranger and worked with a Bureau artist to make a sketch, but they'd been unable to locate him.

"Last night Quint saw the suspect at a rock club in SoHo." Jones turned to Neal. "The same club you were taking Bianka to—Riffs. The suspect was talking with a college-aged kid who addressed him as Drasko."

"That fits the profile," Travis commented. "The suspect could be a recruiter for the ring. Riffs is a hot draw for the college crowd." He winced. "And not just them. Richard and I've gone there several times with Henry and Eric."

Neal was also a regular customer at the club where most evenings were open mic nights.

"Is Quint sure of the identification?" Peter asked. "It's been a couple of months since the sketch was made."

"Claims to be," Jones said. "Quint said there's an intensity to his eyes which is unmistakable. It's the only lead we've got. Diana and I'd like to check it out."

"How do you propose handling it?"

"We don't want to go in an official capacity," Diana said.

"You're going undercover?" Neal asked, a grin breaking out.

"We'll be NYU grad students," Diana said promptly. "My boyfriend has a thing for rock music. We go to Riffs to relax from the stress of classes."

"Go ahead," Peter agreed. "It's a long shot but we don't have anything else to go on."

"Have you heard anything from the Winchesters?" Travis asked Neal.

"Not recently. Why?"

"The demon Crowley was linked to a ring of vampire hackers in West Virginia," Travis said. "Diana and Jones encountered him in New York around the same time that the suspect was seen at Columbia."

"What are you implying?" Peter demanded. "That there may be vampires or demons at Riffs? Neal, when was the last time you were there?"

Neal huffed. "I am _not_ a vampire magnet. Henry's also played many times at Riffs. Neither one of us has any bite marks to show for it."

"That proves nothing," Diana scoffed. "Travis could be onto something. That eye intensity Quint referred to could be demonic vampire glare."

Jones frowned. "Have you ever witnessed demonic vampire glare?"

"Crowley wasn't thrilled with us," she countered. "That's close enough. Neal, anything you'd like to add?"

Before he could speak up, Peter jumped in. "Call the Winchesters if you want, but they already know to contact us if they hear anything about Crowley or vampires roaming the streets of New York. Until there's more to go on, let's leave any talk of vampires out of the official file."

"I hope you realize you'll need to wear disguises," Neal pointed out.

Jones's brows drew together. "Why?"

"You'd introduced yourselves to Crowley. If he's involved, you don't want to run the risk of being recognized."

Jones let out a slow sigh. "I knew it was a mistake to give the demon our names. We should have stuck with those nicknames he gave us."

Diana winced. "Maybe you don't mind being called Flattop but I have no intention of being referred to as Breathless. Besides, Crowley seemed to respect the boss. He may have spared our lives because of it."

Peter was rolling his eyes at the idea. Neal had enjoyed teasing him about Crowley calling him Dick Tracy. Was it time to resurrect the tease?

"You should let us pass judgment on your disguises before you go to Riffs," Neal cautioned, holding off on any joshes for now. "If they don't fool us, they won't trick a demon."

After the meeting, Neal walked back with Travis to the lab. "I haven't had a chance to ask about your vacation," Neal said, hoping Travis would say something on his own. "Where did you and Richard go?"

"He's never been to Texas. We started in Austin. I gave him the tour of the University of Texas where I went to college, then we drove to McDonald Observatory in West Texas, finishing off at Kitt Peak outside Tucson."

It sounded like the ideal trip for them. Travis was into astronomy and Richard shared his love for science fiction. But there had to be more to it than that.

"Anything else happen?" Neal asked and nodded to Travis's left hand. "I don't recall seeing that handsome ring before. Meteorite and titanium, I believe. Is Richard wearing a similar one?"

A shy smile broke out on his face. "We committed to each other under the night sky. The ring is a symbol of that and of the marriage which will eventually come."

"Congratulations! You need a party to celebrate. I'll handle all the—"

"Hold off on that," Travis said. "Your offer is much appreciated but we're not ready. This is just the first step. We wanted something tangible, but let's postpone the party till we're married." He frowned. "And that may be a while."

"You could go to Massachusetts," Neal suggested. That was currently the only state where same-sex marriages were legal.

"We talked about it, and maybe eventually we will, but we'd rather have the ceremony in New York. Want to make a bet we'll get married before you do?"

"That's the kind of bet the gods love to jinx. I'll save both of us by not taking you up on it."

**The Grand Tier at the Metropolitan Opera. Thursday evening. **

El paused by the balcony railing to take in the scene below. The chandeliers were crystal starbursts over a sea of well-heeled patrons in elegant cocktail dresses and tuxes. The buffet tables were laden with tempting appetizers. Waiters circulated with champagne and glasses on silver platters.

She'd spent all day with Yvonne coordinating deliveries and setting up. Could she finally relax? Yvonne was in the back supervising food preparation. The attendees all appeared to be having a good time. Well, maybe not relax, but she could take time for a deep breath.

She spotted Electra looking in her direction. When Electra noticed El's eyes on her, she smiled and gave a nod of approval. Peter joked that Electra was not only a patron of the opera but also of Burke Premiere Events. They were convinced it was thanks to her that El's business had been selected for the reception.

She continued to scan the crowd. Were there any celebrities she'd recognize? She was surprised to see Neal. She hadn't realized he was attending. In his tux, he could easily be the most handsome man there, not that she was at all biased. And who was that attractive brunette standing beside him? Her face looked familiar . . . Then El remembered. Sonya something. The musician who had the fabulous Fabergé egg. At the end of the case, Sonya had invited them to a premiere of another Mozart opera, _The Marriage of Figaro_.

A couple of weeks ago—before Neal had confided his secret—she might have wondered if the woman was Alicia. Now El could bask in the special happiness which only successful matchmakers could appreciate. Neal and Sara were a couple.

She was excited for Henry to know their matchmaking efforts in Arkham Files hadn't gone unappreciated, but his moment hadn't yet arrived. In the meantime, she was delighted to be a participant in the final stages of the con.

Sometimes she wondered what Neal and Sara's relationship would be like without the excitement of a secret conspiracy, but she was _not _going to spoil the moment by obsessing over future issues.

Instead, she was going over to walk over and say hi.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"I wish Peter could be here, too," Sonya said after El left.

Neal smiled and murmured agreement. Absolutely no need to mention that Peter was likely much happier at home, flopped on the sofa with a crossword puzzle and a beer. Neal, on the other hand, was enjoying the reception. Sonya knew most of the patrons. Because of her newfound wealth, she was in the unique position of being both in the orchestra and on a first-name basis with many of the benefactors. When Neal saw that Electra was attending the event, he offered to introduce Sonya to her, but she'd already met her.

Mozzie, or Dante Haversham as he was known to Sonya, had spent his time cruising around the benefactors, dispensing financial advice while prying secrets from them, or so he claimed. The real reason he decided to come to the event was to see Mozart's violin. It was prominently displayed in a special alcove, flanked by security guards. The instrument was on loan from the Salzburg Mozarteum and would remain in New York through mid-December.

"Excuse me."

Neal spun around to see a man in his early thirties with brown skin and short curly hair. The tie of his tuxedo was on the verge of falling off and Neal yearned to give it a quick nudge back in place.

Sonya smiled a welcome at him. "Neal, this is Trevor Hayhurst. He plays oboe in the orchestra. Trevor, this is Neal Caffrey."

Neal shook hands with him but Trevor clearly had his mind elsewhere. After muttering acknowledgment, he asked, "Have you seen Koro?"

"Koro is another oboist," she explained. "No, I haven't. Is something wrong?"

"He was supposed to be here an hour ago. I called him on his cell phone and he's not answering. It's probably nothing . . . If you see him, you'll let me know?"

"Of course."

A scream ripped through the chatter in the hall, shattering the festive mood. Neal jerked his head around to see a waitress running toward Elizabeth. When he saw her signal to a guard, he went over to offer his assistance.

"What happened?" he asked. Judging by El's anguished look, it couldn't be a simple catering mishap.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"When I heard you mention opera, I thought you were referring to software," Travis said. "A murder involving a web browser, now that's something I'd like to investigate."

Neal's smile turned into a yawn. He'd been one of the fortunate ones and had been able to return home at two o'clock. Mozzie knew what was coming. He'd slipped out as soon as the waitress screamed.

Neal was glad he could be there for Sonya. He'd had a bad feeling that the victim was her missing oboist friend, and he was right. The man had been killed with a carving knife plunged straight into his heart. El was almost as upset as Sonya since it had been one of the catering crew's knives.

Trevor was incoherent with grief. Koro was his boyfriend. The police were anxious to question him, but he was too overwrought to provide much of anything useful. Everyone had been searched, questioned and fingerprinted before they were allowed to go home.

Neal spent the day in his art niche in the lab, catching up on the Interpol art bulletins . . . and doodling. He hadn't made a new cartoon for his bulletin board in a while. He glanced around the lab for inspiration and was startled to see an unknown man and woman walk in. Strangers didn't normally enter the lab unless they were escorted. The woman's grin gave her away. Diana and Jones were wearing their new disguises.

Diana had a wig with short kinky curls which resembled dreadlocks. Jones went all the way with dreadlocks down his back, a short beard and mustache. His casual open-collared shirt allowed his wooden bead necklace to be clearly visible. Neal chuckled with appreciation. Now that he'd succeeded in loosening up White Collar's model Bureau agent, the pool table in the bullpen he'd long been requesting couldn't be far off.

Jones grinned sheepishly to the whoops and cheers aimed at the two of them when they revealed their identities while Diana encouraged still more by striking a cocky pose.

"Nobody can call Jones Flattop now," she told Neal.

"Whereas you are as Breathless as ever."

"I'll take that as a compliment . . . once, but don't make it a habit unless you fancy being called Lion Cub again."

Neal winced at her use of Klaus's nickname. "Duly noted. Are you on your way out?"

She nodded. "We've worked up a surveillance schedule for the next several evenings."

"I went ahead and called the Winchesters," Jones added. "They're working a job in New Jersey and offered to stop by for a few days. They'll patrol the area for any sign of Crowley or vampires."

By the time Jones and Diana left, it was late enough that Neal could duck out without raising eyebrows. He made a short detour to his desk in the bullpen. The stack of papers in his document tray was mercifully low. There was only one item left on his agenda—calling Henry. If the Winchesters were taking the threat seriously, Henry needed to be warned. Henry was still at work, if you could call it that. He was playing pool with a couple of members of his team when Neal called him.

"I told Peter I wouldn't go to Riffs till it was declared fang-free and you'll no doubt want to do the same," Neal said.

"Do you honestly think there could be vampires at Riffs?" Henry asked.

"It's possible," Neal said, hedging his answer. "They look like normal people. You'd never know you were talking with a vampire unless they decided to feast on you."

"What about those special ones? The ones that Astrena created?"

"Those are the pure-bloods and there are no clues with them either. That pure-blood vampire in West Virginia wasn't wearing a cape. There was no hint of fangs. He was pale, but so are many rock musicians."

Henry was quiet for a moment. Neal could hear the faint sound of a cue stick hitting a billiard ball. "Good advice to stay away. We haven't been going to the club as often anyway. We've been hitting the dog park every evening. Eric's a fiend when it comes to exercise."

Neal made a mental note to join them on a run sometime, but before he could ask for details Peter gave him the double finger-point from the balcony outside his office.

"I just got off the phone with Detective Larry Wright," Peter said when Neal entered his office. "Do you remember him?"

"He was the one who worked with us on Sonya's case last year, wasn't he?"

"That's right. Larry asked about you. He said it seemed like déjà vu to have a homicide case involving Sonya. He's been assigned to the team in charge of the investigation."

"Do they have any leads on a suspect?"

Peter nodded. "That's why he called. That and because he saw you'd been interviewed. It's beginning to tie into White Collar's area of expertise. The victim was reported to have financial difficulties. His boyfriend Trevor told the police that Koro believed he was being cheated by his financial advisor. This is where the situation becomes murkier. His advisor, Percival Willington, is an influential patron for the Metropolitan Opera. He's offered to manage the finances for opera musicians pro bono, and many have taken him up on the offer. Trevor doesn't know of anyone else who's complained. I've offered to take a look at Koro's investments."

"Would you like me to check with Sonya? She may have overheard other musicians complain about Willington."

"Go ahead. Also ask her if she knows anything about the lipstick incident."

Neal's ears perked up. "Did I miss something?"

"Not unless you were in the ladies' room at Lincoln Center," Peter said with a smile. "And NYPD swears the marks weren't there yesterday evening. This morning one of the musicians found a word scrawled in lipstick on the mirror of the backstage restroom used by the female musicians."

"What did it say?"

"_Rache_."

"As in the German word for revenge?"

"My German is non-existent but that's the only meaning NYPD has been able to come up with. It may have no connection to the crime, but if it does, it opens up a new can of worms. Why was it in the ladies' room? Who wants revenge?"

"And was the murder an act of revenge or is someone plotting vengeance for the crime?" Neal asked, musing aloud. "What role does the opera play? Don Giovanni is all about revenge."

Peter groaned. "So it could be some wag muddying the waters with a joke. Ask Sonya what she thinks about it. Luckily, we're not in charge of the case. We're simply consulting. Have you spoken with Henry about Riffs?"

"I was on the phone with him when you called me upstairs. I warned him and Eric to stay away till we know more."

"Good. How's it working out with the puppy?"

Neal chuckled. "Splash is more of a challenge than Henry anticipated. Fortunately, Eric's had experience with puppy-training. Henry's coaxed him into staying with him until Splash is no longer destroying the furniture."

Peter raised a brow. "So Eric's moved in . . ."

"Eric insists it's only temporary," Neal said, his smile broadening, "but Splash could be a slow learner."

"When El moved in, it was supposedly only temporary too," Peter disclosed with a knowing nod. "Before you know it, your closet's no longer your own."

"I wish I had that problem," Neal admitted, keeping his sigh to a minimum. "Sara seems like a million miles away." After months of keeping their relationship secret, he was relieved he didn't have to hide it from Peter, and it couldn't have happened at a better time. The time zone difference made the evenings especially lonely.

Peter eyed him sympathetically. "Would you like to come over to our place on Saturday evening? El's community theater rehearsal may run late. You could keep Satchmo and me company. No dog training necessary."

"Thanks, but I already have a date"—he paused long enough for Peter to arch his eyebrows—"at the fine arts library. Next week is my final workshop of the semester. It will be on Gregorio Lazzarini."

"I hope he didn't paint any vampires or witches."

"Like me when I was in my Goya phase? No worries. This workshop will also count as my final paper for Sherkov's class."

"Saturday night at the library . . ." Peter stroked his chin. "It presents opportunities."

Delighted, Neal broke into a grin. "I like the way you think. Operation Checkmate will be taking advantage of it."

"Is there anything you'd like us to do to help?"

"Henry may call El. She could add some mysterious smoke to his machinations."

"I'm sure she'll be happy to."

The con was working out better than he'd dreamed. Neal had been ready to announce that he and Sara were dating, but once Mozzie found out about it, he suggested a few refinements to finish the con in a way to make it more memorable for Henry. Now it was also serving to give Neal something to focus on till he'd be able to see her again.

When Neal called Sonya, he discovered she'd chatted with Percival Willington at several donor events. Sonya didn't use him for a financial advisor, but knew several musicians had taken advantage of his offer. She promised to ask around. As for the mysterious lipstick scrawl, she was inclined to believe someone was playing a sick joke, perhaps equating Koro's death with the opening of _Don Giovanni_. In that scene, Don Giovanni kills the Commendatore, the father of a woman he's attempting to seduce. Afterward, the daughter makes her fiancé swear vengeance.

Fortunately the tabloids hadn't heard about the lipstick scrawl. As it was, they were filled with lurid reports of how the ghost of Koro, like the Commendatore, would rise from the grave to seek revenge. Hadn't Koro been killed with a knife just like the Commendatore was?

The ghost who haunted Columbia last month was the last one Neal ever wanted to encounter. He used to tease Henry about his sensitivity to ghosts. No longer. They were real and every bit as fearful as vampires. Should he warn Henry? He was already forced to cope with the threat of vampires. That was surely enough for anyone. And among the places which Henry would likely frequent, Lincoln Center was so far down on his list, it didn't even register.

Neal would see Henry on Saturday for a meeting with Dean and Sam. Henry was eager to go over the genealogical research he'd been conducting. Neal hadn't heard what he'd unearthed and planned to join them while spreading a little Alex smoke of his own.

* * *

_Notes: Thanks for reading! Please join me next week for Chapter 2: Unwanted Guest. Henry will make an appearance and Crowley drops in as well. I plan to post weekly on Wednesday. _

_Sonya Pashkina and her fabulous egg were featured in my second Caffrey Conversation story, The Golden Hen. _

_Many thanks to Penna for her beta assistance with this story. She dreamed up the name of Operation Checkmate for the final stage of the Clueless con. The suggestions she sent me were all so excellent that Henry decided to appropriate one for the con he's been running on Neal and Sara. It's about time it had a name as well. That name will be revealed in Chapter 2. The rings Travis and Richard exchanged were designed during our 2018 writing retreat._

_In the pre-canon Caffrey Conversation AU created by Penna Nomen, FBI Special Agent Peter Burke recruited con artist and expert forger Neal Caffrey in 2003 when he was 24. In exchange for a confession, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant at the White Collar task force in New York City. Sam and Dean Winchester are demon-hunting brothers. Sam is roughly the same age as Neal. Dean is four years older than Sam. Peter is fifteen years older than Neal. For those familiar with the Supernatural timeline, the action is set early in the second season of Supernatural. The Crossed Lines page on our blog has more background information about the stories._

_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation  
__Chapter Visuals and Music: The Night Music board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	2. Unwanted Guest

**Chapter 2: Unwanted Guest**

**Peony's B&B. Saturday, December 3, 2005.**

"This is where the séances are held?" Henry glanced around the old-fashioned lounge, not bothering to conceal his skepticism. The setting didn't resemble what he'd imagined. He'd assumed it would be a dark, gloomy room with beaded curtains and heavily scented with incense. Instead he was in surroundings which looked ideal for sipping sherry and playing canasta.

"No," Neal said calmly and nodded toward an adjoining room. "The séances are in the parlor. Would you like to attend one? Peony was quite taken with you. I'm sure she'd be happy to include you in a session."

"No thanks." Neal had already told him plenty about Peony Mirliton, the innkeeper-psychic or should he simply call her a witch? After all, she was head of a Wicca coven. She'd probably be flattered.

Mixed in with Henry's skepticism and unease was, okay, just a little curiosity. He had a healthy respect for Peony's abilities. She'd detected the curse afflicting Neal and had assisted in its removal. She'd also summoned an ancient Native American shaman. So far she hadn't done anything harmful, and it was hard to imagine that any woman wearing a pink floral cardigan could be evil, but caution was still advised.

Henry had picked Neal up on the way over. They were due to meet with Dean, Sam, and Chloe, but the three hadn't returned from lunch. Henry intended to take full advantage of that serendipitous gift. While he and Neal cooled their heels in the lounge, he could question his secret-loving brother about his Thanksgiving activities.

Before leaving, Neal told Henry he was using the time off to visit art galleries in Europe but had provided no specifics of where he'd be. Clearly he was hiding something, and it could only be Alicia, or Alex as she should be called. Henry had run a check of airplane reservations—just one of the perks of working for the top private investigative firm in the country—but he'd come up blank. Confirmation, as if he needed any, that Neal was concealing his tracks.

But Neal's attempts to outwit him had fallen short. Henry had obtained proof by gambling on a hunch. In the Arkham Files stories, Neal celebrated Thanksgiving in Lyon. Did he have the gall to usurp the romantic scenes El and Henry had carefully crafted for him and Sara? Apparently so.

When Henry called the hotel, he discovered that a reservation had been made in the name of Alex Hunter. It was canceled shortly afterward. Neal must have suspected Henry was snooping on him and had canceled them. That indicated he realized Henry would disapprove but went ahead anyway.

Henry resolved not to say anything for now. There was no point in arguing with a mule and Neal would hide his true feelings with fake outrage about being spied on. Whatever Henry did would have to be so sneaky, Neal would be completely unaware.

His hijacking of Henry's brilliant Lyon concept was wrong on so many levels that Henry was completely justified in being even more devious. In a way, he was glad Neal was making it so difficult. Playing against him was like competing in the World Chess Championship. Henry had even coined a name for his strategy. Project Enlightenment would be one for the record books.

The front door opened and his double walked in with Sam and Chloe, putting a halt to Project Enlightenment for now. Henry still found it hard to look at Dean without doing a double-take and now he knew why there was such a close resemblance.

After exchanging greetings, they moved into the infamous séance parlor to discuss Henry's findings. Peony let the Winchesters use the room as their ad hoc office. For hunters of supernatural monsters, a séance room was appropriate. Henry assumed a nonchalant attitude as he sat down at the chintz-covered table. The china dogs in a bric-a-brac display case gave him a snarky look as if to say, _you're in for it now_.

Neal eyed him sympathetically. He knew exactly what was going through Henry's mind. Some might think Henry felt vindicated to know that ghosts were real. Instead, the world had become a more dangerous place, and his personal connection to the monster-hunting Winchesters was stronger than he'd anticipated.

Henry removed his papers from his backpack and spread them on the table. "It wasn't difficult to discover a possible connection between the Winchesters and the Winslows," he said. "I was able to trace one branch in your family tree back to Seth Winchester who lived in Baltimore in the early 1900s. I discovered my great-great-grandfather was also named Seth. When he was in his late twenties he disappeared from his home in Philadelphia. That was in 1902. The family made a thorough search—even hired Pinkerton detectives to investigate—but they were never able to find him. He left behind a wife and two children—a son and a daughter."

"And you think Seth Winslow changed his name to Winchester?" Neal asked. "Do you have any photos of the men?"

"Not so far," Henry admitted.

Sam frowned as he studied the document Henry had given him. "Seth's a common name. That's not much to go on. Have you discovered why Seth Winslow might give up his life and switch his identity?"

"That took more digging," Henry said, opening up a manila folder. "The company I work for, Winston-Winslow, is headquartered in Baltimore. Some of the historical records of the two families are stored there for safekeeping. I asked my grandfather to check, and he found a few letters which had been written between Seth Winslow's wife and his mother. Leticia Winslow was quite concerned about her husband. He was having nightmares on a daily basis. He wouldn't divulge what was troubling him but she was convinced he'd had some unnerving experience. Once she heard him scream something about fangs and blood."

Dean shrugged. "It was probably just a nightmare like the wife believed."

"Perhaps he liked reading Gothic fiction?" Chloe suggested. "Or his wife might have. Bram Stoker was very popular back then."

Henry nodded. "There are many plausible explanations."

"He might have had a run-in with a vampire," Sam conceded, "but that by itself wouldn't be enough to make a man desert his family. What did you find out about Seth Winchester? I've never heard of him."

"So far not much," Henry said, "but here's another odd coincidence. Both men have the same middle name—Henry. That's a traditional Winslow name dating back to the 1700s. Your grandfather Henry may have been named after him."

"We never met him," Dean said, shrugging. "But since you're into coincidences, here's another to chew on. Henry Winchester, that grandfather you mentioned? Dad hated him for having deserted his family when Dad was a kid. Sounds like Seth could have done the same thing. Not someone to be proud of."

"Yeah, but if we are related, I for one would like to know," Sam countered. "There may have been extenuating circumstances. We, of all people, should know not to rush to judgment."

"I'll be in Baltimore over Christmas," Henry told them. "I can search through the archives."

"Peony may be able to help," Chloe suggested, slanting a glance at Dean.

"What do you mean?" Henry asked, ignoring Dean's frown.

"Sam's girlfriend Maia and I believed we were distantly related, but we had no proof."

Henry's inner detective rose to the surface. "If you had no evidence, why did you think you were related?"

She unaccountably blushed. "It's a long story."

"Do you know what a grimoire is?" Sam asked Henry.

"It's a book of magic, right?"

Sam nodded. "They can contain spells. Some serve more as recipe books for herbal preparations and potions. Chloe's grimoire is warded with a spell which allows only blood relatives of the author to open it. Both Chloe and Maia have the ability. We know of no one else who can."

Henry's eyes widened involuntarily. Chloe was a witch too? He knew she and Maia had cured Neal and Sam of the curse, but he'd assumed it was like they were chefs with special ingredients. Dean's scowl had settled permanently on his face, and Neal flicked Henry a quick headshake, alerting him to not pursue the matter.

"Peony helped us connect with an ancestor," Chloe explained. "Perhaps she could do the same for you, but you'll need to find a personal object of Seth's to establish a connection."

Even if he could, did he really want to talk to a spirit? Wouldn't it be better to let the dead rest in peace?

"Did you ask Graham about Seth?" Neal asked and turned to the others. "He's Henry's grandfather. That makes him Seth's grandson."

Henry nodded. "Pops doesn't remember any stories about him, but he has five siblings. Someone else might have. He's offered to contact them." Henry hesitated. Pops was also insistent on meeting Henry's look-alike. If Henry's theory was right, Sam and Dean were now cousins. What would they think of the Winslow brood?

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Dean was still glowering after Henry and Neal left. Sam wavered between wanting to leave so Dean could hash it out with Chloe alone, and staying to prevent Dean from overreacting.

"If Henry wants to try, I think we should," Sam said. "I'd like to learn as much as possible about Seth."

"Why?" Dean demanded. "So we can find out we have a whacked-out ancestor in common?"

Chloe frowned. "You shouldn't jump to any conclusions about Seth. It was bad enough you overreacted when you discovered I'm a descendant of Bridget Bishop."

Sam stood up hastily and went for the door. "I should leave you two—"

"Sit down," she ordered. "This concerns you too."

Sam obeyed, but he felt his shoulders hunching. No way was he going to be a moderator in any dispute.

"Dean, you were uneasy about my inherited abilities," she continued in a quieter tone, "but now you recognize that because of them I've been able to help you. From my standpoint, finding out about my ancestors was a blessing. It allowed me to understand—and accept—who I am."

"Chloe's right," Sam said, deciding to venture in when Dean didn't come back immediately with a smartass remark. "Wouldn't you like to know more about our family? You like to say hunting's in our blood. Seth Winslow could be the reason why."

Dean waved away his argument. "No need to get on my case. I didn't slam the door shut."

"You and Henry had almost identical reactions," Chloe said. "You might not have rejected the notion but it was plain you weren't thrilled."

"Guys, it's a moot point," Dean said. "Henry doesn't have any personal item. Peony needed the grimoire to establish a connection for Chloe and Maia. There's nothing similar for us. And, Sam, before you start dreaming up a collection of wonderful ancestors for us, take a moment to think about this guy Seth. Henry suspects he dumped his family, set himself up with a new identity, had a new family and then vanished again. Henry's been unable to find any reference to him after 1914. Do we really want to know? What if the guy was a murderer? Don't we have enough black sheep in the family?"

Chloe reached over and clasped his hand. "I'm sorry. I was thinking about my own situation."

"It's okay," Dean said, giving her hand a squeeze. "I'm happy for you and Maia, honestly." He snorted a chuckle. "Look at us. Why in the world would Henry want to discover a connection between him and us?"

"That's only because he doesn't know us very well," Sam pointed out ruefully.

Dean grinned. "Truer words . . ." He glanced at his watch. "This was fun, kids, but the real world is waiting for us to get off our asses. We told Diana and Jones we'd meet them at Sal's Billiards before going on patrol. Time to saddle up."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

El wasn't surprised when she heard Henry's exasperated voice on the phone, although it would have been a positive sign if he hadn't called. It would mean that Henry was no longer obsessing so much about Neal's dates. But this was Henry, after all.

She smiled, mentally giving herself a pat on the back for working at home in the morning. She had a cup of tea beside her. Satchmo was sprawled next to her fluffy slippers. It was a blustery, wintry day outside—ideal conditions for a Monday morning break to engage in matchmaking while blowing a little innocent smoke.

"I knew something was up when Neal didn't take me up on my offer to have dinner with Eric and me. Eric was making mole poblano and Neal loves his food. He said he already had plans. Hah!"

_Did you ask him what those plans were_? According to the rules of Operation Checkmate, lying was forbidden. If Henry would simply ask Neal if he was dating Sara, or Alex for that matter, the game would be over.

"I bet he was seeing Alex," Henry continued. "No point in asking Neal for details. He would have simply deflected or invented some tale about Alicia. But he can't outfox me. We had Richard and Travis over yesterday evening. Did you hear about their commitment ceremony?"

"Peter told me. Plighting their love for each other under the stars is such a romantic moment."

"Commitment, that's what it's all about. Eric and I have discussed it. What if Neal is doing the same thing with Alex?" Henry's voice grew louder and he gave a thump on a drum. El had learned to recognize the sound. It meant he was calling from a huddle room at the Win-Win office.

"I find it hard to believe Neal's ready to talk about commitment with anyone," El said, trying to calm him down. She thought that was true, although she couldn't help hoping that he and Sara . . . She quickly slapped down on that errant thought. This was Henry she was talking to, not Neal. "I saw him at an opera reception on Thursday night. He was with Sonya Pashkina."

Silence for a moment. "Is she the viola player who had the Fabergé egg?"

"That's right. I provided the catering services for the event. We chatted for a few minutes."

"He told me about her. Huh. Is he still playing the field? This could mean he's not serious about Alex. Sonya on Thursday, Alex on Saturday. Or could Sonya be a decoy?"

El winked at Satchmo. Time for an extra helping of smoke. "Why do you think he was with Alex on Saturday?"

Henry chuckled. "I have an unwitting spy. Richard's studio is next to Neal's. He's his closest friend at Columbia. The guy doesn't have a devious bone in his body. I was able to lead him into disclosing that Neal had a date on Saturday night. I made a joke of it, saying with all the dates Neal's having with Alex, things must be getting serious. Do you know what his reply was?"

"No," said El breathlessly, glad Henry couldn't see her smile.

"He said, and I quote, 'I should have thought of that! I've heard him mention Alex on the phone. I thought he was talking about a guy.' " Henry paused for a moment as if to let El absorb the revelation. "We got him!"

_No, we've got you._ Neal was sure Henry would try to take advantage of Richard and had conducted a practice session with him beforehand. Now that Henry was convinced he'd solved the mystery, would he finally talk to Neal about it?

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC **

"I'm surrounded by imbeciles," Crowley groaned, daring Jeremy to contradict him.

He'd arrived at the vampire's quarters above Riffs in a foul mood, and what better person to vent at than Electra's pure-blood. They were brothers in having to put up with a capricious goddess who seemed hell-bent on making their lives miserable. Jeremy's cold-as-ice reaction was oddly soothing. Crowley had never met anyone with so much sang-froid. Up to now, though, Jeremy hadn't had any better luck than Crowley in cooling Electra's over-heated passions.

She lusted as much as ever for Cheekbones Caffrey. The only thing that restrained her was the anticipation of his visit to New Haven in January. Crowley at odd moments wondered if he should upset her apple cart by warning the paint-pusher but had always decided against it. He'd done enough favors for Cheekbones and as far as he could tell, he hadn't received anything in exchange.

Jeremy went over to the wet bar and poured a generous amount of Glencraig into a glass. Handing it to Crowley, he asked, "What has Mother done now?"

The vampire was no fool. He knew that lately Electra was always the root cause of Crowley's black moods. Jeremy poured a smaller amount of Scotch for himself. Yet another reason Crowley liked him. He was almost as fond of single malt as Crowley was.

"Scarbo overheard Caffrey's cousin Henry talking about yet another hunter. So far we only know the first name—Alex."

Crowley would never, ever, like the snitch, but he had to admit the demon was useful. Since Electra's connection to Cheekbones was snipped, Scarbo had been so disgustingly fawning in his attempts to appease his mistress that you couldn't help but admire him. The demon oozed sycophantic ichor, and Electra lapped it up as it was nectar of the gods. And maybe it was.

Deprived of being able to feed off Cheekbones, Electra had ordered Scarbo to lurk at Riffs and keep his shifty ears alert for any news. Never one to miss an opportunity, Crowley had also played the ingratiating game. He'd cozied up to the demon till he was nauseous, and it was worth it. Scarbo spied for him as well. Crowley had already discovered the blood connection between Henry and the Winchester scum. Thanks to Scarbo, he was now aware that the threat posed by hunters was worse than he'd feared.

"Riffs has become a focal point of hunter activity," Crowley continued. "The situation is getting out of control. Soon we may need to move our business elsewhere. Have you been able to track down any more information about the Men of Letters on this side of the pond?"

Jeremy shook his head. "The only reports about them are from the U.K. One of our followers was able to infiltrate their headquarters in London. He was the one who alerted us to Seth Winchester. He also supplied us with a photo. It's grainy but recognizable." He retrieved the photo from his desk then punched a speed dial number on his phone. "Drasko, bring in the Winston-Winslow evidence." He turned to Crowley. "I ordered him to research Henry's company. What he found is revealing."

While Crowley waited, he studied the photo. It showed a man in his late thirties. An intelligent face, dark hair. He was a handsome bloke. Would he have been the type to abandon his family? In Crowley's experience, there were two main reasons—lust and obsession. Lust as a motivator had little interest for Crowley, but obsession . . . that could have been why Seth joined the Men of Letters.

When Drasko joined them in Jeremy's office, he carried a large file. Crowley prepared to be enlightened. He'd recruited Drasko in Croatia. The vamp had an androgynous quality to his handsome looks which appealed to Crowley. He was a natural seducer—something Crowley could personally attest to—as well as a skilled hacker. It was a potent combination. He oversaw the ID fraud operation and was a skilled on-campus recruiter of new talent.

Drasko didn't waste Crowley's time but cut to the chase. "We believed the American branch of the Men of Letters was decimated in 1958."

Crowley remembered it well. The demon Abaddon had instigated the purge and stylized herself the Queen of Hell, usurping Crowley's rightful position as ruler. Although Crowley still referred to himself as King of Hell, for the time being he was a king in exile. His time for revenge would come, although at the present moment exactly how that would be accomplished was murky.

"A few years later," Drasko continued. "Winston-Winslow, commonly known as Win-Win, was formed by two ex-FBI agents, Henry Winslow and Martin Winston."

"Is this the same Henry who is Neal's cousin?" Crowley demanded, bile rising in his throat. If Henry was a time traveler, he could be in league with Chronos, and Crowley would have to cope with yet another Greek god raining misery on his life. Unless . . . was Henry immortal? Bloody hell.

"No, it's the cousin's great-grandfather," Drasko said, providing a small ray of comfort. "The company specializes in investigative work, data mining, and security. It's a secretive, family-run outfit." He paused to lock eyes with Crowley. "Sound familiar? Like the Men of Letters? One could make the case that while we thought the Men of Letters were destroyed, in actuality they simply reorganized within the cover of Win-Win."

Shocked, Crowley considered the significance for a moment. "What proof do you have?"

"So far, only circumstantial," Drasko admitted. "Dean and Sam's grandfather was named Henry Winchester. He was about the age of Graham Winslow, who is the current Henry Winslow's grandfather. Suppose the two cousins, Henry Winchester and Graham Winslow, reconnected and discovered they were related. We'd assumed Henry Winchester had died during the carnage in '58, but instead he might have simply gone underground like his ancestor."

"What bearing does this have on our current operations?" Jeremy asked. Crowley appreciated his calmness. No need to panic . . . yet.

"Over the past year, Win-Win has been making overtures to the FBI," Drasko said. "They've partnered on a few cases that we know about. This is primarily due to the closeness between the current Henry Winslow and his cousin Neal." He turned to Crowley. "Sir, your suspicions that the Bureau is in league with the Men of Letters appear to be correct." He leafed through the papers in his folder. "I found further evidence." He handed Crowley a photo. "This is a photo of Henry's grandfather Graham Winslow when he was about the same age as Seth Winchester in the earlier photo."

_Bollocks_. The two men could be twins. What were the odds of two sets of doppelgangers in the families? Was there some demonic twist to the Winchester Winslow connection or were those no-good archangels messing with the family lines?

"And now we have Bureau agents staking us out," Jeremy added dryly.

"Riffs is infested with G-Minnows?" Crowley blurted, choking on his Scotch. "When did this start?"

"Saturday, as near as we can tell. They may have been here the day before and our cameras didn't capture them. A man and a woman. One of the vamps overheard the woman ask about Drasko." Jeremy moved to the bank of surveillance monitors and pulled up a feed. "Do you recognize them?"

Crowley considered the pair. Young, dark-skinned. The woman reminded him of someone . . .

"You've already met them," Jeremy added. "Our guys were able to track them. After they left the club, they met the Winchesters who addressed them as Diana and Jones. They work for Burke," he added unnecessarily.

Crowley glared at their images. Flattop and Breathless were breathing down his neck at Riffs? This was intolerable. The last time he'd seen them, they'd all been prisoners of leech-zombies. In a rare moment of leniency, he'd spared their lives when he obtained his freedom. The ungrateful prats. "Did the vamp hear anything else useful?"

"I was apparently ratted out," Drasko said shortly. "Someone reported seeing me on the Columbia University campus with our latest recruit."

"Did they mention me?" Crowley asked.

"No, but they discussed ID fraud," Drasko said. "They also mentioned Lutar."

This was going to hell in a bloody race car.

"Does Burke know about pure-bloods?" Jeremy demanded.

"Unfortunately yes," Crowley acknowledged. "Your brother was a plague on my life from the evening he was created. Because of his fixation on Cheekbones's female cousin, he attracted not only the Bureau's notice but the hunters as well. Dean and Burke saw me and Lutar at his castle in West Virginia. Hell, they overheard me advising Lutar to charm them so they wouldn't remember anything. I know Burke. I call him Dick Tracy, but Bulldog may be more appropriate. He doesn't give up. He hounded my meatsuit for years. If he believes there's a pure-blood at Riffs, we'll be in for the same treatment." Crowley heaved a sigh which didn't begin to adequately express his displeasure. They needed to come up with a plan, fast.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Diana scowled at her watch. Surely they'd been here long enough. She had a headache from the truly lousy music some rock wannabe was belting out on stage. She glanced at Jones and caught him in the middle of a yawn.

"It's almost closing time. Let's call it a night," she suggested.

"Agreed," Jones said wearily. "What we need is a new strategy. This one isn't working."

They got up from their chairs. There were only a few customers at Riffs. Monday was an off night for the place. That's probably the only reason the guy on stage was allowed to sing.

As they walked onto the street, Diana consoled herself that they'd made some progress. They'd run an intensive background check on all muggings in the area around Riffs and a disturbing pattern emerged. There was an unexpectedly high incidence of artists and musicians who were victimized. Granted, SoHo was a draw for the artsy crowd, but even so they only made up a minority of the people on the streets.

It appeared indisputable that most of the attacks had been targeted at that segment of the population, and that increased the likelihood of Astrena and her pure-bloods being involved. The team already knew Astrena liked to feast on creative types. Dean and Sam were convinced that the vamps were harvesting blood for her.

Peter was treating the matter so seriously, he'd ordered Neal to stay away from SoHo till further notice. For Travis, it was particularly troubling. Richard's office was in SoHo. He could hardly stay away, but now if he worked late, he took a cab home. Yet to be decided was how to inform the public of the danger. Posting an alert about vampires roaming lower Manhattan was out of the question.

The Winchesters had lectured her and Jones up the wazoo that they had no business tracking fangs. Diana could have argued the point, but she had to admit a machete was not her weapon of choice. She and Jones were relegated to performing surveillance at the club while Dean and Sam patrolled the streets. Peter had provided the hunters with Bureau badges to avoid any unpleasantness with the NYPD. Diana had checked the expiration date of the badges. It was for a month from now. She hoped the case wouldn't take that long. It was _not_ her intention to spend every night of the holiday season at Riffs.

While they waited for a taxi, Jones pulled out his cell phone and called in an update to Dean. Although, honestly, how could you call it an update if they hadn't seen anything worth reporting? Diana's head still hurt from the out-of-tune singer. Wasn't there a law against bad singers inflicting their crap on others?

It was late enough that there weren't many people on the street. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a group of three men a block away. Her heart skipped a beat as she studied them. Grabbing Jones's arm, she hissed, "Drasko's here," and nodded in the direction of the group.

Jones held his phone closer to his mouth and whispered, "Diana spotted Drasko. He's with two others."

"Get the hell out of there!" Dean ordered, growling so loud Diana could hear him too. "Do. Not. Attempt to approach. You hear me?"

"Understood," Jones said, ringing off. "Let's go back into the club."

They turned around to find Drasko and his two fellow thugs standing in front of them. Were they vampires too? Diana gulped. She hadn't heard any footsteps. How did they get there so fast?

"I hear you've been asking about me," Drasko said. "Let's go where we can chat." He smiled, revealing fangs where incisors should be.

Diana reached for the mini siren on her belt. At the instantaneous ear-splitting screech, Drasko gripped her throat. "This isn't finished," he snarled. Jerking his head to the others, he then sped off.

The three ran so quickly, it was almost as if they vanished into thin air.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Are you tapping a coded message?" Sonya asked over the phone.

Neal chuckled. "No, that's Dante Haversham's knock." Mozzie was experimenting with new rhythms. His latest was anapestic tetrameter. Neal waved a greeting to him when he strolled into the loft.

"Tell him hello for me," Sonya said. "I enjoyed his company at the reception."

"I will and thanks again for calling. If anything else happens, please let me know." Neal got up from the couch as he tapped the end-call button. "That was Sonya. You made a hit with her last week."

"Naturally," Mozzie said complacently, helping himself to a glass of wine from the open bottle of Merlot on the kitchen counter. He nodded at the pad of paper and photos on Neal's dinette table. "Homework from the office?"

"I've been studying that lipstick scrawl which was found on the mirror at Lincoln Center. Peter asked me to work on it. The style appears European, but that's not much help since many of the musicians are from Europe. There's an unusual flourish to the first letter which may be significant."

Mozzie picked up the photo and studied it. Resting his chin on his upraised hand, he gave an excellent imitation of Rodin's Thinker.

Neal smiled and refilled his own glass. Who was he to disturb a genius at work? He had his own theory to work on. Sitting down in front of his laptop, he began a search on the internet. Sherlock Holmes had used the word _rache_ in "A Study in Scarlet." Had the jokester imitated Arthur Conan Doyle's signature?

"Whoever your trickster is, they're a person of education and wit," Mozzie declared. "You'll allow me the use of your laptop?"

"Have at it, maestro." His own search could wait.

"Ah, you sense my meaning," Mozzie said.

_I do?_ Maestro was the word used for conductors and distinguished musicians. Did Mozzie think the orchestra conductor was responsible?

Mozzie gave a satisfied grunt and swiveled the laptop for Neal to see the display. "What do you think?"

Neal stared with fascination at the screen. Mozzie had brought up Mozart's signature. The style of flourish appeared identical to the one in the lipstick scrawl.

"I happen to have in my collection a sheet of music by Mozart which contains his signature. You'll note the jagged edges to the script. Someone has mastered his handwriting."

Neal studied the two specimens. "Duplicating that style in lipstick is no easy feat. There's a spontaneity which is impressive. It's hard to believe one of the musicians did it."

"Who else could have? Someone is seeking revenge for Koro's murder. They're taking advantage of the opera to link it to Mozart."

Neal nodded. "But what does that imply? That one of the fellow musicians is the murderer? Perhaps it's simply a sick joke. Sonya told me that they have a prankster in their midst. The women have been hearing giggles in their dressing room, particularly in the restroom, but haven't been able to trace the source. Pieces of clothes have gone missing, only to show up a few days later. The incidents started a week before the murder. They may not be connected."

Mozzie nudged his glasses higher on his nose. "Or someone may be copying more than the signature of Mozart."

"The movie _Amadeus_ depicts Mozart as a frivolous practical joker. Someone could have assumed his role. Do you know if the composer actually was?"

"Surely, you're more familiar with him than I am."

Neal stared at him. "Why is that?"

"You were dreaming about Mozart and Astrena not so long ago. What did your dreams reveal?"

Neal let out a noisy exhale to indicate his dislike of that line of reasoning. "First of all, I have no idea if the dreams were accurate. All I saw was Mozart playing the harpsichord. Astrena was sitting or standing beside him. They were laughing together at times, but that's not very revealing of his character."

Mozzie shrugged. "Mozart could have been one of Astrena's victims. His candle was snuffed out at far too early an age. As for him being a practical joker, the movie was accurate. Mozart loved bawdy jokes. He also was fond of dancing and liked a game of pool." Mozzie smiled. "He and I would have been good friends."

* * *

_Notes: A little of Hagen is rubbing through in Crowley's musing on the exchange of favors. Let's take a moment to show a little sympathy for the demon who is haunted by hunters wherever he looks and now faces the specter of the Men of Letters working with the FBI. Henry would no doubt be flattered that he's caused so much consternation._

_The Sherlock Holmes connection to "rache" is low-hanging fruit, but Mozzie's going for a higher branch. Mozart was Austrian. If it was his ghost who scribbled the message, using a German expression would come naturally. _

_Crowley's use of G-Minnows was based on a typo I'd made. I wrote about some of the more entertaining bloopers I've made in this week's blog post: "Catspaws and Muddled Lyrics." Penna's post is "Happily Independent After." I promise it's as intriguing as the title sounds!_

_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation  
__Chapter Visuals and Music: The Night Music board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	3. Night at the Opera

**Chapter 3: Night at the Opera**

**Federal Building. December 8, 2005. **

Diana and Jones were the headline attraction at the team meeting on Thursday. Neal had thought his news would dominate but he was relegated to second place. Who could compete with an actual encounter with vampires? Up to now, the only team members in that exclusive club were Neal and Peter.

"We met Dean and Sam inside Riffs," Jones said, "and gave them our report. So far they haven't found a trace of Drasko or his henchmen."

"Did you recognize the men with him?" Peter asked.

"Neither one was the missing student from Columbia," Diana said. "We don't remember seeing them at Riffs. A sketch artist has prepared drawings and the Winchesters have copies."

Peter glanced down at his notes. "You never saw Drasko at the rock club. That means there's likely at least one additional vampire who frequents the club. Someone probably overheard you asking about Drasko." His frown intensified. "You had a narrow escape."

Jones nodded, releasing a slow breath. "When Diana activated her siren, a group of college students on the corner started toward us. That's probably why Drasko didn't linger."

"It was reckless of him to approach you in the first place," Neal said. "Dean said that normally vampires target the lone individual."

"We were at a taxi stand," Diana pointed out. "He may not have wanted to let us escape before he delivered his message."

"Fortunately we were wearing disguises so he can't recognize us," Jones said.

Peter shook his head. "Sorry, but that won't help you. Vampires rely more on scent than sight. You're on their radar now. You'll have to leave the leg work at night to others. Have you asked the owner of the club about Drasko?"

"Jeremy Sangford? Not yet," Jones said. "I'd hoped to have stronger evidence first."

"Now we have it," Peter said, closing his notepad. "I'll arrange it with Dean."

"Is there any way to know if Drasko is one of Astrena's pure-blood brood?" Travis asked.

"Not unless he reveals himself," Neal said. "In the case of the pure-blood in West Virginia, Lutar didn't look inhuman. When he attacked me, though, his skin took on the appearance of molten lava. I felt like I'd been transported to the surface of the sun and was being liquefied."

"I had the same experience," Peter said. "Pure-bloods also have the ability to charm their victims."

"What exactly does _charm_ mean?" Diana asked. "That we want to go to bed with them?"

Neal shrugged. "That, or whatever they want you to believe. Supposedly they can affect our memories and perceptions."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Peter cautioned. "There's little evidence to suggest Drasko's a pure-blood. It's bad enough he's a vampire. Unfortunately this heightens the probability that the missing student has been turned into one."

"But we shouldn't discount the pure-blood connection," Travis advised. He scanned the others. "Lutar was a rock musician. We know Drasko frequents a rock music club. Astrena is attracted to artists and musicians. She may pass that interest onto her progeny. In that case, Riffs may not be the only club Drasko goes to. You may not have seen him there because he's been visiting other venues."

Diana sighed, brushing her hair back with one hand. "Good point. There must be over a hundred rock and jazz clubs in SoHo and the Village. They'll all need to be checked."

"Jones, you and Diana coordinate the teams," Peter said. "No more undercover work. All inquiries must be made by teams of at least two agents during the daytime." He turned to Neal. "You mentioned you had news on the opera front?"

Neal nodded, glad he could lighten the atmosphere. After discussing vampires roaming SoHo, the team needed something to lift their spirits. "It looks like we may have a Mozart prankster on the loose." He described the signature match and the jokes being played at the Metropolitan Opera House.

Diana arched an eyebrow. "Someone's taking advantage of a Mozart opera to imitate the composer? Is this an example of esoteric humor where no one gets the joke unless you belong to the club?"

"That's what it sounds like," Neal agreed. "Sonya said there have been reports of giggles and music for a couple of weeks now. Whoever is committing the pranks is an expert counterfeiter, though, and that piques my interest. Supposedly their music knowledge is also first rate. The musicians have heard snatches of violin or harpsichord music coming from the opera hall."

Peter exhaled. "This complicates the investigation. A musician could have a couple of screws loose but is otherwise harmless. They may not have any knowledge relevant to the case, but we can't dismiss the possibility."

Neal smiled. "You and Mozzie think alike." How often could he point that out? Peter could grimace all he liked. It was true. "He wants me to join him in a stakeout."

Diana snorted. "He just wants to meet Mozart's ghost."

"Probably," Neal agreed. "In any case, it's a mystery he's determined to crack." He glanced at Peter. "And since you're not allowing me to participate in the investigation in SoHo—"

Peter narrowed his eyes at him. "I should therefore permit you and Mozzie to haunt the opera house?"

Neal chose to ignore the sarcasm. "Exactly. I'm glad you appreciate the necessity." He pivoted to another topic before Peter shot that comment down. "Have you discovered any leads about the financial advisor?"

"I've applied for a warrant, but it may not be granted. The advisor's record is dismal, but that's not a crime. It's possible Koro discovered evidence of fraud, confronted him, and Willington murdered him to prevent exposure, but there's damned little evidence, even circumstantial."

"So until something more pops up, this could be our best shot," Jones said. "Perhaps the prankster killed Koro, and is masking the crime with random taunts."

"We could set up surveillance cameras in the Opera House," Travis suggested. "I have no experience though on whether ghosts can be recorded."

Peter considered the idea for a moment then agreed. "Tell Mozzie if I see concrete evidence of the ghost, I'll join you at the stakeout."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter knew as soon as he uttered the words that he'd regret them. What gods had he offended that he was obliged to join Neal and Mozzie in the control booth overlooking the stage at the Metropolitan Opera?

Not that it wasn't entertaining. If he'd been at home, he and Satchmo would have been by themselves since El was at a rehearsal for _A Christmas Carol_. And he probably would have been worrying about what mischief Mozzie was dragging Neal into. Did Mozzie have his eye on Mozart's violin? Now Peter would know.

It was hard to take the stakeout seriously, and frankly, why should he? If this had been a legitimate operation, they would have had a support van parked outside with additional personnel and several agents positioned throughout the building. But the resources could hardly be justified when their target was only suspected of being a peeping Tom and a prankster. Even Neal admitted that he would have begged out if Mozzie hadn't been so insistent. He was caught in the crunch of a master class to present and final papers to write. It was one of those periods which made Peter glad he was no longer in college.

But for some reason, Mozzie insisted it had to be tonight, so here they were. Mozzie had contacted Sonya to secure permission from the Met, and by the time Neal and Peter heard of his plans, the timetable was set in stone.

"A night at the opera for the three of us, what could be finer?" Mozzie declared with a broad smile spreading over his face. "And it's our good fortune that the control booth is soundproof with one-way glass. Our trio can pass the evening in scintillating discourse while waiting for Mozart to appear."

"Confess, Peter," Neal said with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You would have calculated the odds of you being present at nil."

"I've learned that when it comes to you two, nothing is impossible," Peter bluffed, having no desire to admit how close Neal was to the truth. He turned to Mozzie. "Do you swear you didn't hire an actor to impersonate Mozart?"

"May J. Edgar rise up from his grave and haunt me if I lie," he swore. "I had no prior knowledge of the entity recorded on the Bureau's surveillance cameras. Travis can bear witness I didn't tamper with any of the feeds."

The results had been revealing. Nothing had been captured during the previous day except for a few strains of violin music in the women's dressing room. But starting at midnight, the cameras had recorded fleeting glimpses of a man dressed in eighteenth-century clothes. He wore a scarlet embroidered coat and breeches with white tights. His wig was topped by a white tricorne hat which shaded his face. Cameras had captured him close to the violin, near the women's dressing room, and outside an entrance into the hall. A thorough search had been conducted the next morning and nothing discovered.

"I'd say our mysterious visitor is very accommodating," Neal said as he peered through the glass window down onto the stage. "He allowed me to go to my classes yesterday in uninterrupted peace."

"And then provided us with an elegant milieu to celebrate," Mozzie added, opening up a cooler.

Peter stared at him as he pulled out a champagne bottle and three glass flutes. There were containers of appetizers in the cooler. "Is this how you normally conduct surveillance?"

Mozzie shrugged. "Usually I don't bring along amuse-bouches, but these were Janet's idea. She sends her best wishes, by the way, for our anniversary."

"_Our _anniversary?" Peter repeated, raising a brow.

He nodded, looking even more pleased with himself. "On this date two years ago, Neal signed his initial contract with the FBI. Despite my initial grave reservations, I too feel the occasion is worthy of a celebration." He popped the champagne cork.

"This is why you insisted on us being here tonight?" Neal asked, looking delighted as he held the glasses for their host to fill.

"We've come a long way this year," Mozzie said complacently. "We should pause and appreciate the moment."

Peter faked a sigh. "If I'd only known when Neal signed on that I was getting a package deal—"

"—you would have torn up the contract," Neal said, passing Peter a glass. "As it was, you nearly fired me the first day."

Peter groaned. "No need to rehash ancient history."

"Agreed," Mozzie said promptly. "Instead we should toast all the finder's fees I've been able to pocket because of our partnership. Lately, though, the rate has slackened." He paused to eye them sternly through his glasses. "There will be no recidivism. Constant vigilance is required." He reached into his duffel bag and brought out a CD player. "In view of the circumstances, a little night music is in order."

"As in _Eine Kleine Nachtmusik_?" Neal asked, grinning.

"It had to be Mozart," Mozzie agreed.

Neal raised his glass to Peter. "This is the perfect way to celebrate. Only two years ago you were lecturing me about how there'd be no blurring of the lines and I'd need to stay on the straight and narrow, and now look at the transformation!"

"Exactly," Peter said, attempting to frown through his smile. "Why is it that I've been more transformed than you?"

He chuckled. "We've both mellowed. Mozzie, what did you bring in those containers?"

"I have green peppercorn pate for us, and for the Suit, his favorite deviled ham. You see, I've also learned to compromise." Before Peter could object to that exaggeration, Mozzie asked, "What did you find out at Riffs?"

"The owner gave us a copy of their surveillance feed from the past two weeks, and we were able to find an image of Drasko. He was sitting at a table with the two men who'd been with him when he accosted Diana and Jones. Sangford—that's the owner—said he's not a regular, and he's never performed. We couldn't warn him Drasko's a vampire, or he'd think we're delusional. Instead, I told him he was a person of interest in a kidnapping. Dean and Sam are concentrating their efforts in the area around Riffs."

"But they're not going to be able to continue that indefinitely," Neal warned. "The vamps of Manhattan are being cagey. There are no known recent deaths with exsanguinated victims."

Mozzie nodded. "Even our vampires are civilized urbanites. Without blood and gore, the Winchesters are likely to feel their services are more in demand elsewhere."

Mozzie had a point. Was that an unexpected perk to city life? Based on what Peter had heard of the hunters' other jobs, monsters appeared to prefer rural areas and small towns.

"I suppose I should feel guilty I'm not helping them patrol," Neal said.

Peter shook his head. "That should be me, not you. I was the one who ordered you to steer clear of Riffs."

"Have I thanked you? Having a bird's eye view of the opera stage is much more enjoyable. It's a shame there's not a performance going on."

"We are supposedly on a stakeout," Peter reminded him, although the champagne was beginning to make him feel so mellow that he had trouble saying it with a straight face.

Neal appeared to be having the same issue. He took another sip and turned to their host. "What is it with you and Mozart? You're always humming his arias. Not that I object, but when did it start?"

"That's where your nickname comes from!" Peter said, snapping his fingers. "I'm right, aren't I?"

Mozzie nodded, looking pleased. "You're the second to guess correctly."

"Who was the first?" Neal asked.

"Sara. When we were in Hungary, we discussed nicknames. It helped reduce the anxiety she was feeling about you."

This was turning out to be a night of revelations. It was an unexpected gift for Mozzie to be so open. "You'd already discovered the con Neal and Sara were running," Peter guessed. "That's why you asked her to go with you."

Mozzie looked as pleased as a sultan presented with Turkish delights. "I'd found out a couple of weeks earlier but hadn't informed them."

"Did you pick Mozart because he was a fellow genius?" Neal asked.

"That's what Sara thought too, but actually it was because I had a teddy bear named Mozart." Mozzie smiled nostalgically. "That bear and I went back a long ways. He accompanied me to the orphanage Father Jeffries ran."

Mozzie had been close to El for a while, but apparently he'd now included Peter in his inner circle. And the thought was surprisingly pleasing. Peter raised his glass. "To the three bears. You have the teddy bear, Neal jokes about me being a polar bear, and everyone knows who Neal is."

Neal groaned. "Not Baby Bear. Mozzie, you said you exchanged nicknames with Sara. You didn't tell her about that one I hope?"

"No, that's your secret to share when you're ready."

"Which will be never," Neal said decisively.

Peter snorted. "Haven't you learned by now, secrets always have a shelf limit? That one may be expiring soon. Your grandmother will bring out the video. Shouldn't you—"

"Look!" Mozzie hissed, his eyes fixed on the stage. He pressed the pause button on the CD player.

Peter riveted his attention to the figure capering onto the stage. He was dressed in the same outfit which had been recorded on the surveillance tape. Peter whipped out his binoculars to study his face. The man appeared to be humming a tune as he executed dance steps.

"His face is pock-marked," Neal whispered, swallowing. "So was Mozart."

"That hadn't come across in the feed," Mozzie said excitedly. "And that dance he's executing? It's a contredanse allemande which Marie Antoinette was especially fond of."

Should Peter be more stunned by the man or by the fact that Mozzie was also an expert in historical dance? For now, he'd focus on the man—Peter wasn't ready to call him a ghost.

The Mozart wannabe took off his hat and executed a low, graceful bow to the imaginary audience. He then slapped the hat back on his head, skipped to the front of the stage, and jumped into the orchestra pit.

By now, they were all standing with their faces pressed to the glass. Mozart approached the harpsichord which was positioned in the center of the orchestra pit directly in front of the stage and skimmed his hand along the lid of the instrument. The next instant he vanished.

"Wow." Neal swallowed. "We saw Mozart's ghost."

"I knew it!" Mozzie said, apparently ecstatic over the notion.

"It's gotta be a trick of some sort," Peter argued, refusing to believe what his eyes told him.

"If it isn't, what would happen if we confront him?" Neal asked. "Our previous encounter with a ghost was nearly our last."

"You don't need to remind me," Peter said. Being confronted by two ghosts in a little over a month was beyond cruel. Not only that, it could indicate the start of a pattern. Last month they'd discovered a rift to Oblivion, a mysterious underworld of vampires, witches, and vengeful spirits known as eidolons, lurking within the tunnel system under Columbia University. The eidolon had been destroyed but not before it had killed two people. Since then, the tunnel network had been searched and no trace of the rift found. Had it somehow reopened or was Mozart a different, friendlier type of ghost? Whatever it was, Peter was forced to acknowledge this was no ordinary human playing a prank.

They waited for a half hour but the figure never reappeared. It was with some trepidation that Peter agreed to investigate the orchestra pit. What would happen when they opened the lid of the harpsichord? Would Mozart leap out and attack them? Peter comforted himself that so far the spirit had shown no inclination to violence . . . unless he had been the one who murdered the oboist. There hadn't been any slime on the corpse, so if the ghost had been the killer, he likely wasn't an eidolon. That thought made Peter stop in his tracks. What other types of ghosts existed which he knew nothing about? Should he request the Winchesters hold a boot camp on spirits for the team?

"Anything wrong?" Neal asked.

"God, I hope not," Peter muttered, not willing to discuss that uncomfortable thought with anyone.

When they crept up to the harpsichord, there was no trace of gas emanating from the lid. The only cries were from Mozzie who lamented over having forgotten his electromagnetic frequency meter. If the sightings continued, would Peter need to make an EMF meter standard for all surveillance ops?

Neal placed his hand on the lid and looked questioningly at Peter.

Peter reluctantly nodded to proceed. Everyone was poised to spring back. Why hadn't he brought an iron poker? Dean had told him during the last case that iron would repel ghosts for at least a little while. This was an indication he hadn't taken the danger seriously. When would he learn? When Neal and Mozzie were involved, anything was possible.

Neal cautiously raised the lid . . . and nothing happened. The harpsichord was a single manual instrument. The strings stretched over the soundboard weren't broken. Mozart had evidently left the premises.

"He could have left a note or a ribbon from his shoe," Mozzie said with a soft sigh.

"It's fortunate we have the camera feed or no one would believe us," Peter said, breathing easier. His mistake about the poker hadn't come back to bite him after all.

"You missed our conversation about ghosts at Cape May," Neal told him. "There Mozzie reassured Henry that most of Cape May's ghosts were friendly ones. From what we've seen of Mozart, he falls into the Casper variety."

"Is that what you're going to put into your report?" Peter demanded.

"I thought you'd want to write it. This is a celebration for my two years of dedicated service, after all. Requesting the honored guest to file a report is simply not done."

Peter groaned. "I'm declaring the party over. Let's clear out our gear. We can move one of Travis's cameras to be trained onto the harpsichord. If Mozart reappears, we'll capture him on film."

By the time they packed up their equipment and adjusted the cameras, it was after midnight. Dean hadn't phoned in a report so they must not have found anything.

Neal suggested they check the dressing areas for the musicians before they left to see if any messages had been left. He turned out to be right.

In the men's dressing room, lay the body of Percival Willington. There were no visible wounds to indicate the cause of death but he was coated in orange slime. Mozart was an eidolon . . . and a murderer.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Dean grabbed Sam's arm and pulled him back in the shadows.

"What'd you see?" Sam asked in a whisper.

"Check out those guys loading equipment into the van. Doesn't that skinny kid look like one of the fangs who accompanied Drasko?" They'd spent the past two hours combing the streets of lower Manhattan, using stills from the video feed provided by the Riffs' owner for reference. They struck pay dirt on their way back to Riffs.

Sam peered around the corner. "You're right, but I don't recognize the other. That's computer gear they're loading into the van. These could be the hackers the Bureau's been looking for."

Dean couldn't get a good view of the driver. The vamp they recognized went down the steps to the basement of the brownstone and locked the door. When he returned to the vehicle, it sped off.

The building was a classic brownstone with a high stoop. It appeared unoccupied with no lights showing through the windows of the upper floors.

"This is our lucky break," Sam said, starting forward. "Let's check it out."

Dean hung back for a moment, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. This was too neat. They were the Winchesters. They weren't supposed to get breaks like this.

There was no security alarm on the door to the basement. While Sam kept watch, Dean had it open in a few twists of his lock pick. Before entering they took out their machetes from their protective cases in case any fangs were looking for an express pass to Oblivion.

The apartment appeared to be a run-down office. Next to no furniture. What little there was looked like it had come from a second-hand office supplier. A battered metal file cabinet. Old metal desk.

_Whoosh!_

Before they could take a breath, the vamps were on them. Drasko made straight for Dean. Sam was entangled with a guy who looked like one of the other fangs in the photos.

Drasko pressed his hand onto Dean's forehead, paralyzing him in place before he could get in a swing of his machete. The fang's skin transformed to hot molten lava. Shit, Drasko was a pure-blood.

Dean felt like he'd been transported to Hell. The flames licked at him. Somehow, he still had his machete. He had to make this blow count. He probably wouldn't get another chance.

With a deafening howl, Drasko staggered back, the machete buried deep into his chest. A dense red column of smoke rose from him as his body disintegrated into powder.

"Sammy? You okay?" He could hear Sam's pants before he turned his head.

His brother stared at him with disbelief. "My fang turned to powder too. That's just like what happened to the vamps we killed in West Virginia."

"Huh. Guess those pure-bloods aren't as tough as we feared."

Sam nodded slowly. "I suppose. Pure-bloods must do something to run-of-the-mill fangs to make them disintegrate if they're killed. We've seen it happen twice now."

"Maybe an incentive to protect the pure-blood?" Dean shrugged. "You won't get any complaints out of me."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Crowley walked up to Dean and Sam and stared at their faces. They were standing upright, their eyes open, but for practical purposes, they were in a state of deep sleep. "Enjoy your nighty-night, boys." He turned to Jeremy. "Not a bad trick."

A slight smile traced the pure-blood's lips. "They were easier to put under than I anticipated." He strode over to Dean and blew gently in his face.

Crowley awarded himself extra points. It was one of his most brilliant plans yet. Absolutely no need to restrict the size of his smirk. Like all genius maneuvers, it was deceptively simple. All that was required was one pure-blood capable of charming mortals to believe whatever the bloody hell Crowley dreamed up.

Jeremy had refined his skills during the months at Riffs to be at the top of the game. Luring the moose and squirrel to the brownstone had been trivial. As soon as they entered the room, Jeremy froze them to the spot with his wickedly perverse breath. He then planted the pre-arranged scene in their minds. When they awoke, they'd believe they'd found a pure-blood and killed him. There'd be enough evidence to convince even Dick Tracy Burke that this had been the hacker bolt-hole. Case closed.

From his position at the desk, Drasko chuckled. "I wouldn't mind being reborn a pure-blood. Any chance Astrena could grant my desire?"

"You can ask her yourself if you like," Crowley said. "Her radiance will attend the premiere of _Don Giovanni_ this Saturday."

"I assume she gave her blessing to your plan," Jeremy asked, sprawling on the futon, his eyes half-slits.

"She recognizes the threat hunters pose," Crowley said. "Moving the hackers to our new location will provide the security we need to continue our activities unmolested. I've had the site thoroughly searched. It's remarkably free of hunters, which, considering the region I picked, is rather remarkable."

"I'm looking forward to New Orleans," Jeremy said. "I've heard enough bad rock to last several lifetimes. Our next front should be a jazz hall."

Crowley was eager to sample the delights of the Crescent City as well. "I'll leave immediately to make the preliminary arrangements."

"Good. Tell Astrena I'll put the club on the market in the coming weeks. Who would blame me after hearing about the lowlifes who've taken advantage of my venue?"

Crowley smiled. "So thoughtful of Burke to provide you an excuse." He turned to Drasko. "It's still your intention to return to Europe?"

He nodded. "Alcy requested my help with the vampires in Venice."

"Give her my regards." She was just as delightfully evil as Astrena but without the haughty pretensions of the mightier-than-thou Queen of the Stars. Drasko had been turned in the Czech Republic back in the days when it was Bohemia. When Crowley recruited him to organize his first team of hackers, Drasko had warned him he would only stay a short time. He and Alcy would be a powerful force in Venice.

As for Crowley, he'd be able to pop in on Astrena or Drasko whenever he liked. The time to teleport from New Orleans was not much longer than from Manhattan. He'd miss Maia, but not much. Now that Astrena had fried her memory, Maia didn't realize her sister Electra was actually a goddess and she only thought of Crowley as a business associate. That closeness they'd achieved for a few brief months had vanished along with all knowledge of her life as a demi-goddess.

It was of small consequence. Friendships in Crowley's experience were always short-lasting and never ended well. He'd soon kick off the Manhattan dust and head for fresh pastures, far, far away from Dick Tracy, Cheekbones, and the rest of their lot.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal had thought Mozart's ghost would trump whatever Dean and Sam reported, but in the end it was a tie. Dispatching a pure-blood to Oblivion was not to be sneered at. The next morning while Neal and Peter met the Winchesters at the opera house, the forensics team combed through the basement apartment. Both activities proved fruitful.

Although most of the equipment in the brownstone had been hauled away in the van, one laptop had been left behind. The hard drive had been wiped but Travis's team was able to recover enough data to prove it had been used to store credit card information. Sam had captured the van's license plate number. The van was traced to a rental company. No one had high hopes for it providing much useful information. But with the death of Drasko, they were optimistic that the operation had been brought to a standstill.

There still remained an eidolon to deal with. Willington had met with the opera director the previous day. Mozart probably seized the financier on his way out. When Dean took EMF readings, the meter spiked at both Mozart's violin and at the harpsichord in the orchestra pit. They'd learned in the previous case that eidolons relied on a personal object to maintain their existence in the realm of the living. By slicing through an object with a knife made of silver, the personal object would lose its effectiveness. The harpsichord was a modern instrument, making the violin the most likely soul-object. So far no one was discussing how to convince the Austrians that a priceless object needed to be mutilated.

Peter had confiscated Willington's records. He and Jones divided up the work of analyzing the transactions. Already red flags were being raised that the advisor had skimmed money not only from musicians but his other clients as well. Mozart may have performed a public service. The team speculated that somehow the ghost knew Willington had killed Koro and had taken justice into his own translucent hands. Perhaps Koro confronted his financial advisor and threatened to expose him. If the eidolon was satisfied, he might return to Oblivion or restrict himself to giggling in the ladies' dressing room. That was what Mozzie predicted, pointing out that the Met could consider being haunted by the ghost of Mozart a plus.

At the end of the day, Neal headed home to work on his papers. They were all due next week. His workshop was proving to be a particularly difficult mountain to climb. He'd wanted to analyze the influence of the Venetian school in Gregorio Lazzarini's works, but the artist was a pastiche of so many styles that it was difficult to separate the different threads running through his paintings. Neal had to continually remind himself this was for a one-hour workshop, not his master's thesis. Although, perhaps it could be.

When a call came through on his cell phone, Neal ignored it as he stared at the pair of illustrations in front of him. Was this the proof they'd been looking for?

On the third angry ring, he relented and took his phone out of the pocket.

"Hi, Peter. What's up?"

"Bobby called. He's coming to town. He wants us to meet him tomorrow at Peony's. Are you free at four o'clock?"

"I'll be there," he promised. "Would you like to stay in town afterward? You can change into your tux in the loft, and we'll go to the opera together." The premiere was that evening. Sonya had provided tickets for him, Peter, El, Mozzie, and Janet, but El wouldn't be able to go since she was scheduled to perform in _A Christmas Carol_ that night. With an eidolon roaming the opera hall, Dean and Sam would also attend.

"Thanks. I'll take you up on it," Peter said.

"Did Bobby provide any details?" Neal asked.

"You'll like this. He's been researching the portraits you'd discovered in Alcy Lancaster's house in Connecticut."

"The witch house?" Neal asked, sitting upright.

He could almost see Peter's wince at the expression. "That's the one. Bobby figured there might be something in the lore relating to the artists who were represented, and he's uncovered new information about Astrena."

Coincidence? Serendipity? An early Christmas present? What were the odds?

"I heard that chuckle. What's so funny?" Peter demanded. "Astrena is no laughing matter."

"You don't need to remind me. Bobby's not the only one who's discovered something about our evil goddess. I think I've found her."

* * *

_Notes: Despite his efforts, Crowley's troubles with Dick Tracy and Cheekbones are far from over. Crowley's not the only one to suspect that the numerous parallels between the Winchesters and Winslows are part of some master plan. To arrive at the truth, I recently interviewed lead muse Penna Nomen for our blog. The post is called "A Win-Win-Win Situation." _

_Next week I'll post the final chapter: Curtain Call, and have news about the upcoming story lineup. _

_The account of Neal signing his initial FBI contract is in Choirboy Caffrey and a flashback sequence in Harlequin's Shadow (Chapters 18-19)._

_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation__  
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Night Music board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	4. Curtain Call

**Chapter 4: Curtains**

**Peony's B&B. Saturday, December 10, 2005. **

Neal retrieved from his portfolio two large copies of the paintings in question and placed them side by side on Peony's séance table. He pointed out a figure in each picture and scanned the group. "These women look remarkably like Alcy Lancaster, aka Astrena, to me. What do you think?"

This was Peter's first chance to review his evidence. Although they'd met to discuss Bobby's findings, Neal's report was equally important.

Also assembled around the table were Dean, Sam, Chloe, Maia, and Mozzie. Once Neal morphed into an art historian, he began to lose his audience. Although White Collar's resident artist found Titian's influence on the 18th-century Italian artist Gregorio Lazzarini a fascinating subject, Peter wasn't alone in having a tough time following Neal's excited chatter.

Chloe frowned as she studied the images. "You believe that Alcy acted as muse to the two men?"

Neal nodded. "Not only that. I bet she was their model. In both paintings, she appears to be in her twenties, even though the works were painted roughly 150 years apart. If I'm on the right track, this also explains why she had the painting of Titian in her house. Those portraits were trophies of her conquests. There was a painting on the wall I couldn't identify at the time, but I bet it was a portrait of Lazzarini."

Was Alcy Lancaster's true name Astrena? Peter could understand why Neal thought so. In the Lazzarini painting, she was depicted hammering a nail into a man's head. Neal probably felt the same way when she was psychically linked to him.

"This evidence helps to confirm Alcy's connected to Astrena," Sam said, "but she could be one of the sisters rather than the goddess herself."

Peter took out his notebook to jot down comments. "Let's review the evidence on her."

"We know Astrena created pure-bloods at Jenny Jump State Park during last year's summer solstice," Dean said. "There's no evidence of Alcy being there at the time, although she could have been."

"In the pure-blood's house in West Virginia, I overheard Crowley mention Astrena," Neal added. "The next time he was spotted was a month ago in New York City. That was when he was held prisoner along with Diana and Jones by the leech-man. We never found out why Crowley was here in the first place. Was it because Astrena or a pure-blood was in New York?"

"Perhaps both," Bobby rumbled. "She and her demon pal might have been visiting that pure-blood Dean ganked last night."

"And don't forget Astrena's brother Thanatos," Sam cautioned. "How does he fit into the puzzle?"

Dean slouched back into his chair. "Until we can capture one of them, we're not likely to find an answer."

"Are there any other members of the family which could be a plague on us?" Bobby asked Maia.

"No brothers or sisters that I know of," she said. "Astrena calls her handmaidens sisters, but they're not blood relatives. Supposedly they're mortals she's elevated to the role."

"How about her parents?" Dean asked. "The way this case is going, we all should brush up on our Greek mythology."

Maia smiled wanly, and Peter sympathized with her. New York City had enough dangers without becoming the playground of Greek gods.

"The parents of Astrena and Thanatos are Erebus and Nyx," Maia explained. "Nyx is the goddess of the night, but she's rarely mentioned in the records. Erebus appears more often. From time to time, he steps in to assist mortals. He's the god of darkness. That's been taken to imply not only the underworld but also the realm of the stars and what lies beyond the stars."

"I ain't hankering to meet the parents," Bobby growled. "Isn't it bad enough that the fissure to Oblivion has reopened?"

"You're positive?" Peter asked, startled at his news. Even though he'd seen the eidolon in the opera hall, accepting that a rift had formed once more between a mythological realm and Manhattan was a shock.

Mozzie nodded. "Dean and Sam went spelunking with me to confirm the tangerine ectoplasm. It's in the same location—the brick tunnel near Buell Hall. There was a trace amount of residue which only an expert slime investigator such as myself would have been able to detect."

"The EMF reading was at its top range," Sam confirmed gloomily.

"Alcy is still on the FBI's most wanted list," Peter said, "but there's been no sign of her in the States. We also alerted Interpol about her."

"So what we're left with is jack with a side of squat," Bobby said, summing it up succinctly. "And what I discovered won't be much use in distinguishing Astrena from her so-called sisters, but it may help even the odds. Since some of the paintings in the witch house were Italian, I figured it would be worthwhile to check with an Italian hunter I'd met a few years back."

"Had he heard anything about Astrena?" Sam asked.

"Yep. Paolo found an old journal kept by a hunter in the sixteenth century. The journal has notes about Astrena. This ancient hunter was worried that either Astrena or a sister was operating in Venice. He'd located a sword"—Bobby paused to pull a worn sheet of paper out his shirt pocket—"the sword of Saint Mercurius. According to the lore, the sword would kill the sisters."

"How about Astrena?" Dean demanded.

Bobby frowned. "Not likely. Gods aren't easily killed off. The hunter thought that it might cause her to be damaged—maybe reduce her power or banish her."

"It's a start," Sam said. "The sisters supposedly establish links to humans like Astrena. They're just as much killers as she is. Does Paolo know where the sword of Saint Mercurius is?"

Bobby's frown deepened. "Nope, and there's no mention in the journal if the sword actually lived up to its billing." He turned to Maia. "You're the scholar. Have you ever heard of the saint?"

She nodded. "He's venerated in the Coptic Church. According to the associated legends, he received a sword from the Archangel Michael to help defeat his foes."

"So there actually could be a sword of Saint Mercurius, but it's up to us to find it." Dean winced. "Story of our lives."

"I'll start writing hunters," Sam offered. "Someone else may have heard of it."

"Maia and I may also be able to help," Chloe said. "We've been working on a potion which could act to shield you from a witch's spell."

"Is this like the oil you made to keep vampires from smelling us?" Sam asked.

"It should work the same way," she said. "Think of it as a psychic barrier against incoming spells."

Dean nodded slowly. "A repellant for spell mosquitoes? I like it."

"We're sure we're on the right track," Maia said, "but we haven't been able to get it to last for more than a couple of minutes."

"How are you testing it?" Dean asked warily.

Chloe winced. "We're casting spells on each other." When he groaned, she quickly added. "Only small harmless ones."

From the look on Dean's face, there was no such thing as small, harmless spells. Peter had confidence in the women's ability, but he was a firm believer in the best deterrent being to stay far, far away from any spell-casting evil goddess.

"I'll check with Luchino, my contact in the Vatican library," Mozzie offered. "The hunter was Italian. Luchino may have information about sites connected to Saint Mercurius. I've long thought about broadening my knowledge of ancient Coptic. This will be an excellent opportunity."

_Mozzie knows Coptic? Surely he jests_. "Getting back to the here and now," Peter said, refusing to dwell on that disconcerting prospect, "who will be at the opera tonight?"

"Maia and I are going with her sister," Chloe said.

"We'll be there thanks to Janet who supplied us with tuxes," Dean said. "We'll perform a penguins-on-patrol act during the opera."

"But you're having dinner with us first, right?" Chloe asked, placing a hand on his arm as if to keep him from bolting at the thought.

Her concern was probably justified, judging by the length of Dean's sigh. "Electra's reserved a table at the Grand Tier. Some of the wealthiest people in Manhattan will be there."

"Exactly," she declared. "Don't you need to protect us?"

Maia worried her lip. "It's not my style either. We can sit on one side of the table and ignore the others." She looked pleadingly at Sam. "I hope you don't mind."

"No, but you'll need to coach us on what forks to use." Sam looked at Neal. "I assume you'll be dining there, too."

Neal nodded. "Peter and I will sit with Mozzie and Janet."

Dean looked like it was on the tip of his tongue to suggest switching tables, but Chloe shot him a warning look which reminded Peter of El's dagger eyes when he was about to call an unwanted audible. He decided to give Dean an assist by nudging him out of the danger zone. "You'll be doing us a favor by helping to protect those bigshots. For all we know, Mozart could be jealous of the rich and famous."

"We'll all keep our eyes peeled for Mozart," Sam said. "If he sticks to his traditional attire, he should be easy to spot."

"Bobby, would you like to attend?" Maia asked. "I could ask my sister. I'm sure we could fit in an additional chair."

"Great idea!" Dean said, smiling wickedly. "Bobby _loves _the opera."

Now it was Bobby shooting daggers. "Thanks, Maia, but I already have plans."

"A likely tale," Dean scoffed. "Maia, go ahead."

"Stop being a wiseass," Bobby growled.

Dean locked eyes with him. "So what are those plans?"

Bobby unexpectedly cleared his throat. "Peony invited me out to dinner. Now, don't look that way. She said it was to thank me for driving into town to give you an update. For some unaccountable reason, Peony's very fond of you two idjits. Chloe and Maia I can understand, but you two?"

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC **

By the end of the evening, Neal was in relaxation mode. The opera had been glorious, the dinner superb. The only missing element was Sara by his side. It was difficult not to be envious of Sam and Dean who were able to attend the event with their girlfriends.

The Winchesters looked distinguished in their tuxes. Chloe told Neal that Electra had provided shopping money for her to buy a gown for the event. Dean was seeing Chloe in a new light as she was him, and from their mutual looks of admiration, the event was a success. Sam and Maia appeared equally blissful. Neal felt an empathetic warmth, not that he'd had much of anything to do with it. Was that why Henry and El enjoyed matchmaking so much?

"Thinking of Sara?" Peter murmured in his ear.

Neal nodded, flicking a glance at a redhead in a slinky platinum gown and wishing she was Sara. "Have I told you how much I despise long-distance relationships?" He and Peter were lingering over champagne on the Parterre Level. Many of the patrons had already left. So far there'd been no sign of Mozart.

"Several times over. You're beginning to sense why I wasn't enthusiastic to join the Interpol art crimes task force."

"But now it may be my salvation. Don't they need me for a case in London?"

Peter chuckled. "Go ahead and contact John Hobhouse. Just don't stage the heist in advance in hopes he'll call on you."

Neal stood back to gaze at him admiringly. "Why didn't I think of that? You're a genius!"

Peter groaned. "Me and my big mouth."

Neal smiled and switched topics before Peter began to stew in earnest. "What did you think of the opera?"

"That scene where the deceased father—What's his name?"

"The Commendatore."

"Yeah, what you said. That scene where he came to life and Don Giovanni was dragged off to Hell has to rank as one of opera's scariest moments."

"It's too bad Dean and Sam insisted on patrolling. They would have appreciated the demons."

"I now have a fuller appreciation of why Mozart's ghost wrote _Rache_ on the bathroom mirror. Although it still doesn't make any sense why he suddenly appeared here after hundreds of years."

"I've been concerned about that as well," Neal agreed. "In the case of the other eidolon, we assumed his chance came when the building with its secret room was undergoing renovation. What was the trigger for Mozart?"

Peter took a sip of champagne and reflected for a moment. "It may have been the violin."

"How so?" Neal asked.

"It's possible there are only a few locations where a rift to Oblivion can form. There may be none near Salzburg where the violin is normally on exhibit. When the violin was brought to New York, the eidolon could have considered it his golden opportunity."

"Meaning we'll have to smash the violin to send him back?" Neal grimaced. "There's got to be another way. We should put Mozzie to work on it."

"Have you seen him?" Peter scanned the crowd. "I'd have thought he and Janet would have joined us at the bar."

"I saw them briefly at the end of the opera. Janet had arranged for them to meet the head of the wardrobe department."

Peter nodded absently, his brow furrowing.

"What's wrong?" Neal asked.

"Dean's heading our way and he's got a dark cloud over his head. Something's up."

Dean shoved his way through the throng. "Have you seen Electra or Maia?"

"Not since the performance," Neal said. "Why?"

"Both have disappeared. Sam tried calling Maia but she's not answering. Chloe has Electra's cell phone number but no dice there either. Electra told us to meet her at the front doors. She was going to give us a lift home in her limo."

"I'll alert security," Peter said, pulling out his phone.

"We should check the stage," Neal suggested.

"We'll search the public areas outside the hall," Dean said. "With three tiers of balconies, there's a lot of ground which needs to be covered."

While Peter talked with NYPD, Neal returned their glasses to the bar. Party time was over. He chided himself for having grown too complacent, accepting without question Mozzie's theory that Mozart was no longer deadly.

"What did you tell the police?" Neal asked when Peter joined him.

"I gave them Maia and Electra's descriptions and explained they were possibly missing. The detectives had already been told to be on the alert for anyone masquerading as Mozart. On no account are they to approach him."

"Good. Leave it to us, the professionals."

Peter exhaled but didn't argue the point. Instead, he pointed to the corridor beyond the bar. "That leads to an entrance to the orchestra level. Let's try there."

The doors were shut to the performance hall. It was late enough that they'd been locked, but they were trivial to open. Peter insisted on standing in front of Neal while he worked his magic, but he was so quick with his lock pick, it really wasn't necessary.

Cautiously Neal opened the door. He could feel Peter's breath on his neck. The lights had been turned off but the stage was still illuminated. And standing in the center was Mozart. In front of him were Electra and Maia, stiff as statues and seemingly paralyzed. They glistened with orange slime.

Neal and Peter immediately dropped down to sneak along the aisle. Hopefully, the eidolon was so focused on the women he hadn't noticed the intrusion.

They made an eerily silent tableau in front of the large statue of the Commendatore. Mozart was capering around the women, seemingly listening to his internal music. Suddenly another figure emerged from the shadows. Neal stopped and stared in amazement. Quint Lawson? What was Mozzie's friend doing there? He felt Peter's hand grasp his upper arm and pull him down. They crouched behind a row of seats.

"My dear sister," Quint said, striding up to Electra. "You've never looked lovelier. The slime enhances your complexion."

"Thanatos!" she hissed. "Release me this instant!" Electra's voice was pitched octaves below where it was normally. Maia's eyes were open but her face was an emotionless mask.

Out of the corner of his eye, Neal could see Peter staring at the group as well. He didn't need to say anything for Neal to know what he was thinking. Quint was Thanatos? He'd called Electra his sister. That meant she must be Astrena. Ice swept through his veins at the thought.

Quint turned to the ghost. "Wolfgang, my friend, we're all assembled. Ward the hall. We wouldn't want any intruders."

Mozart gave a low bow and flicked his wrist.

Quint strode to the front of the stage and locked his gaze on Neal and Peter's location. "As for you, it wasn't my intention to include you in the party, but if you insist . . ." He opened his mouth and blew a stream of orange gas straight at them.

An instant later, Neal was on the stage next to Maia. He was dripping in goo. He could breathe but the connections between his brain and his limbs appeared to be severed. Peter was standing a little in front of him in the same condition.

Quint snorted a laugh. "Surely, Astrena, you could have chosen a better object to be fixated on than this sorry excuse for a mortal."

"You can't hold me for long," Electra thundered. "Release me before I—"

"Do what?" He strode over and blew more gas in her face. "I may not be able to kill you, but I can keep you paralyzed for as long as I like. First you'll be privileged to watch the execution of your beloved servant Maia. I had intended to hold off on Neal for another time, but it's really of no consequence when he dies. As for Peter . . ." Quint turned to him and blew an additional coat of slime on him. "Perhaps I'll let him live so he can tell the world about you."

He spun around to face Electra. "Shall I kill Maia quickly? That seems hardly fair after the way you treated my friend Wolfgang. He's been waiting for hundreds of years to exact revenge on you for having caused his premature demise." Quint called him over in German and wrapped an arm around the ghost. "He feels as I do. There's nothing we can do to punish you adequately, but we intend to try." His face darkened. "You tortured my lover, slowly killing him over a period of months."

"Are you still beating that dead horse?"

"Quiet!" he snarled, his face contorted into an expression of rage. "Just for that, I'll awaken Maia in time for her to suffer exquisite agony."

"She means nothing to me," she howled. "Kill them all!"

"Typical of you, sister. You may not care about them, but you do value your reputation. Once Peter bears witness to what he's seen, you'll be ruined." His smile was more terrifying than any of his words. "I have no intention of killing Maia. I'll force you to do the deed. Then you'll be the one to murder your love toy. Peter won't remember I was here, but he'll remember everything you did. The world will learn to loathe you just as I have."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Any word from Peter?" Dean asked, using his lock pick on the door to the hall.

Sam shook his head. "He should have phoned in a report by now." They'd made a sweep of all the passages and public areas with nothing to show for it. Were Peter and Neal now in need of being rescued as well? He patted his jacket to verify his silver blade was still in place. NYPD was checking outside to see if anyone had spotted Electra and Maia.

"Mozzie and Janet arrived," Chloe said, waving them over.

"What's going on?" Mozzie demanded. "Janet was giving me a tour backstage. We tried to go onto the stage but were locked out."

Dean crouched down and squinted at the lock. "The hall's been warded. Based on our experience last month, this appears to be a standard eidolon trick." He shrugged. "Looks like we found our ghost."

"We have no choice but to destroy the violin," Sam said, frowning. "As long as his soul-object is undamaged, we'll never be able to take him down."

"You can't!" Mozzie said, looking aghast.

"Mozart's already killed once," Dean argued. "There could be four people with him inside that hall."

"Are you certain the violin is his soul-object?" Janet asked.

"It's the only object at the Met which belonged to Mozart," Chloe explained, "and it has a high EMF reading."

Mozzie's eyes grew unfocused. Sam felt for him, but a priceless artifact couldn't compare with someone's life.

"Let's get this over with," Dean ordered. "The violin's down the hall. Sam and I have badges. We'll tell security that we were tipped off about an explosive device wedged inside the instrument. They'll have to—"

"That silver knife you have," Mozzie asked, interrupting. "How thin is the blade?"

"We have two types—hunting and pocket." Dean pulled the dagger out of its sheath inside his shoulder holster. "The pocket knife is for smaller items. We don't use it much but it's convenient to carry around."

Sam took out his pocket knife and passed it to Mozzie.

This should do nicely," he said, nodding with satisfaction.

"What's your plan?" Janet asked.

"The violin has two F-holes on the front of the instrument. Those curved openings are designed to enhance the sound. Our first attempt should be to slip the knife inside one of the F-holes. That may be sufficient to disrupt the field."

Dean frowned. "I don't think that will cut it."

"It's worth a try," Chloe urged. "You'll know if it worked by taking an EMF reading, won't you?"

It was worth a shot. The only other soul-object they'd dealt with was a solid instrument. Just to get permission from the guards to insert a blade into the opening would be a challenge. Mozzie was convinced he'd be able to fabricate a plausible excuse. When Dean pressed him for details, he muttered something about bugs and spies, saying that it would ruin his performance if he rehearsed it in advance.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Quint—or Thanatos as Neal assumed he should be called— rubbed his hands gleefully. "Let's proceed, shall we?"

_That's okay. I don't mind waiting_. Neal still couldn't move. Slime dripped from his eyelashes, making it difficult to see. He and Peter were positioned in front of the statue of the Commendatore. The figure was cloaked in a voluminous robe, the head shrouded in a hood. What they needed was a _deus ex machina_. Neal would settle for the Winchesters, but would they be any good against a god? They'd just be ensnared as well.

Neal sensed Peter was watching him and although he couldn't move his head, he could see Peter out of the corner of his eye_. Don't worry about me. I didn't escape Astrena's curse to die at the hands of Thanatos._ It still hadn't sunk in fully. The woman he thought was Electra was actually Astrena. She looked human. The slime coating simply made her glisten. He should hate her, fear her. He must still be in shock. And Maia—Sam's sweet girlfriend. She was Astrena's sister. Why had she helped break the curse?

Thanatos strode up to Maia and blew a plume of green-tinged fog onto her face. Her eyes popped open. She still appeared paralyzed but her eyes swept up and down his frame. And no wonder. Standing at about five and a half feet tall, with a thatch of red hair and geeky appearance, Thanatos was hardly anyone's image of a god ruling over an underworld.

"I was going to be merciful," Thanatos said, "but your sister assured me you'd prefer to die painfully."

Mozart had jumped on top of the banquet table and was watching intently. Thanatos raised his hand and pointed to Electra. "I command you to—"

A clap of thunder resounded through the hall. From behind the statue of the Commendatore emerged a man. He wore long robes of deep purple. The skin of his face was rich umber.

"Enough!" he roared. A low rumble of thunder that no mortal could make echoed in his voice. Thanatos immediately prostrated himself on the ground. "You children are a disgrace. I didn't create you to be petty meddlers in the affairs of men. You may have forgotten your place, but I haven't."

Neal's heart stopped. Children? Was he in the presence of Erebus, a primordial god so ancient his father didn't have a name but was simply called Chaos? Why should he be surprised? There was nothing about the appearance of Astrena and Thanatos to reveal they were gods. Erebus appeared like an ancient African potentate. His voice was the only inhuman aspect about him.

"Thanatos, I'd ordered you to confine yourself to Oblivion. Your domain is not among the living." He snapped his fingers. "Henceforth you shall confine yourself to where you belong. And you shall not go alone." He turned his head to the side of the stage. "Scarbo, I summon you."

A ripple of fear passed over Neal. The demon who'd plagued his dreams while he was linked to Astrena skulked onto the stage. He'd been real. Correction. He still was. Memories of Scarbo tormenting him replayed in his mind. Neal assumed he'd been having nightmares. Now his nightmares were standing in front of him.

"You have behaved despicably," Erebus thundered. "Your days of torturing mortals are over. For crimes against humanity, I banish you to Oblivion for eternity." With one snap of his fingers, Thanatos and Scarbo vanished.

He strode closer to Astrena. "As for you, my daughter, the muse you once were is no longer. Instead, you are a plague on those who would enhance mortal lives with beauty and song. This must cease. For ten years your powers will be held in check. No longer can you acquire strength from the stars or from those who worship you. No longer can you establish links to mortals. You have one chance to resume your position as Queen of the Stars and the muse you once were. Use your time wisely. You will be judged by your actions."

Mozart was standing motionless, his features distorted with hatred toward Astrena. Neal was with him in spirit. Why couldn't she be banished too? And what would happen to Mozart? Would he have to return to Oblivion? Didn't he deserve a measure of peace?

Erebus appeared to have read Neal's thoughts when he turned to the ghost. "Your place is not in the underworld, little one." He paused when the sound of a door opening echoed faintly in the hall. With a quick flick of his hand, the god turned to Neal and Peter. "Your friends look for you. This will hold them till you're ready to see them."

"Wolfgang, your spirit is free to soar once more." He snapped his fingers.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Dean paused at the entrance to the hall, suddenly lightheaded. He shook his head and the moment quickly passed.

Against all odds, Mozzie's strategy had worked. Once Sam slipped the silver pocket knife inside the violin, the EMF reading sank to normal levels. By the time they returned, the spell was broken, and the doors to the hall opened easily.

The vast chamber was eerily quiet. No spectators. No music. But on the stage, four figures were sprawled on the ground, glistening with slime.

Dean pounded down the aisle, with the others close behind. By the time they got to the orchestra pit, Neal and Peter were sitting up. Maia held a hand to her forehead, looking dazed. Electra was still motionless.

"Is Mozart around?" Sam called out, his silver blade unsheathed.

"I don't know," Neal said, swiping goo off his face. "I can't remember anything after we entered the hall."

Chloe and Janet went over to assist the two women. Maia was tending to Electra who appeared the groggiest of the group.

"I remember seeing Mozart," Peter said. "He was dancing around Maia and Electra who were already slimed. The next thing I knew, I was waking up."

"Did you have to destroy the violin?" Neal asked, looking anxious.

"The violin's fine," Mozzie assured him. "We broke the spell field by piercing the F-hole."

"That must have been enough to dispatch the ghost back to Oblivion," Dean added. When they'd faced the previous eidolon, the destruction of the soul-object had sent him packing. That time, Mozzie and Sara had been the victims. Once the soul-object was rendered impotent, they regained consciousness.

Despite a few tense moments, this was one of the easiest jobs Dean had ever participated in. Sam helped Maia wipe slime off her face. Janet was assisting her sister. Aside from a few ruined tuxes and gowns, damage was minimal. Dean nodded with satisfaction. They'd killed a pure-blood, ganked an eidolon. Yep, he'd earned some quality downtime with Chloe.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Stop pacing," Crowley advised. "Your situation could be so much worse."

He'd teleported into Electra's suite at the Hotel Plaza Athénée late that night, intending to have a final fling before taking off for New Orleans. But her radiance was in no mood for snogging, let alone anything more stimulating.

He went to the mini-fridge in the kitchenette and retrieved the blood discreetly concealed in a Bordeaux bottle. While there, he helped himself to another Glencraig.

Taking their drinks into the living area, he placed the Waterford crystal glass in front of her. "You may not be able to link to artists but you can still enjoy the taste of their blood."

She shrugged and took a seat beside him on the loveseat. "There is that. Ten years is but a millisecond in my life. It will pass quickly."

"That's the spirit. We mustn't let these petty annoyances cramp our style. I've heard delightful accounts of New Orleans. You may wish to join me there."

"I'll consider it. There's no point in devoting resources to Columbia." She looked at him sharply. "You'll continue to supervise my blood shipments?"

"Of course, Celestial One."

"Good. I'll keep a list of protégés for future pleasures."

Crowley would never be one to contradict her, but had she learned nothing from the experience with Erebus? Crowley, for one, wasn't about to provoke Papa's wrath. "How is Maia?" he asked instead.

"Seemingly unaffected by the experience. My father erased her memories of what happened, and I imagine he did the same to the others. I may not be able to reinstate Maia on the vernal equinox, but since she can't remember she ever was my handmaiden, she won't know what she's missing."

"And you still have your witchcraft," he pointed out.

She smiled. "And my orchids." She stroked her upper lip thoughtfully. What was she plotting? Would she be able to devise a workaround? Astrena's witchcraft was formidable, and Erebus hadn't neutralized her ability. Crowley's mother was a witch. He could personally attest to the power of dark magic.

Setting down her glass, Electra stood up, raised her hands, and transformed into the shape he recognized as Astrena. Ten feet tall, ice-blue shimmering gas. Astrena had been given a hand slap by Papa Erebus, nothing more. Her time would come again.

And Crowley would be her trusted advisor, her gigolo, whatever she wanted, while steadily siphoning funds for his own nest. That nuisance Scarbo was gone forever. Astrena was even more reliant on him. All in all, not a bad outcome.

The hunters could take as big a bite out of the Big Apple as they wanted. He was off to the tropical charms of the Crescent City, far away from the Winchester and Winslow vermin.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"The Bureau lab must be having a field day with all that ectoplasm," Sara commented over the phone.

"They got a bucket just from me," Neal confessed from his position on the couch. "The forensics team supplied us with coveralls to wear home. The only saving grace was that by the time we were ready to leave, the patrons had all left so they didn't have to witness the sartorial catastrophe."

"Do the Winchesters really think that's the end of it?"

"When you confront monsters, I don't know if you can ever tie up a case neatly. It's not like demons can be locked away in a supermax. If the dead are able to come back to life, is there ever true closure?"

He heard Sara take a breath and regretted he'd voiced his fears. They were both familiar with enemies they hoped would never return. Henry's father Robert had been more dangerous than Mozart's ghost. What if the man who'd abused Neal when he was a child came back? Not a memory he wanted to dwell on. "In this case, Mozart's ghost may have done us a favor. Peter and Jones discovered a long list of fraudulent activities for the deceased financial advisor. He'd been cheating his clients for years."

"In other words, Mozart performed a public service?"

"Exactly, and I, for one, have no desire to go to Oblivion to try to arrest him."

"I see your point. How is Henry handling yet another ghost proved real?"

"He's taking it in stride and focusing on the positive. I spoke with him a few minutes ago. The good guys weren't hurt. No one was cursed. There's been no sign of Astrena or Crowley. Jones feels confident they've made a major dent in the ID fraud ring. He hopes to prove it with statistics of a substantial decrease in reported crimes. All that's left for us to do is plan Christmas."

"That's a much happier topic!" He could hear the smile in her voice. "Has Henry asked about your plans?"

"Of course. I gave him a truthful answer. I'm taking advantage of the school break and vacation days to research my thesis."

"With a little time out for extracurricular activities?"

"I didn't think it was necessary to bring that up," Neal said airily. "More revealing is that Henry will be in Baltimore with Noelle and Joe. And he's taking Eric with him. They'll be with both sets of grandparents on Christmas Day. Angela, Michael, and her mother will be there too."

"It will be an affirmation for Henry and Eric. I couldn't be happier for them." Was she envious? Would they be making the rounds of the relatives next year? Neal put those thoughts out of his mind. One step at a time.

"Henry couldn't resist teasing me about how someone needed to behave responsibly," Neal disclosed.

"What was your reply?"

"That I was thinking of the grandparents. What with Angela engaged and Henry in a serious relationship—that's all the excitement they can manage during one holiday."

Sara chuckled. "Good answer! And that keeps us free to plan the grand reveal."

"There's an added wrinkle. Henry and Eric are going to India the first week in January. Henry wants to take Eric to the places he stayed last fall."

"Did you get the dates?"

"Not yet. If I asked, Henry might suspect an ulterior motive. I'll rely on Travis and Richard to pump him for details. I'm meeting them next week to review their role in the con."

"It's about to begin!" Sara said.

Neal relished the excitement in her voice. "Mozzie called me this morning with extra refinements. He's working like a man possessed—not literally, of course."

"That plus the honey wine business, his work on Arkham Files . . . How will he find time for tunnel exploration?"

"It will be a challenge. He and Travis are working on special cameras to monitor the area where the Oblivion rift formed. They will act as an early warning system."

"This isn't that different from Travis's work with SETI. Now, in addition to extraterrestrials, he's monitoring under-terrestrials."

"I'll have to tell him that. He'll like the analogy. The cameras are essential. Mozzie lost his tunnel buddy, Quint. When he got home last night, he found a text message on the cell phone he uses for SETI work. Quint had a family emergency and is taking a leave from his studies."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Mozzie will miss him. But it does give him more time to help us. Neal, I'm so excited about Christmas!"

Neal was as well. He'd never spent Christmas Day in New York, and he vowed he wouldn't until Sara was there to share it.

* * *

_Notes: ___Thanks for reading! _Astrena managed to escape banishment for now, but it doesn't sound like she learned her lesson. The eventual showdown, which you know is bound to happen, is still a few stories off. But for now Astrena plans to behave. She doesn't want anything to ruin the student film project which was described in Columbia Ghost Story. Neal, Aidan, and Richard as well as a few others are scheduled to spend the weekend at her mansion in late January of 2006, and, yes, she has something extra-special in mind. _

_Before saying farewell to Night Music, I wrote about Mozart for our blog. The post is called "The Mozart Connection."_

_A grateful shout-out to Penna Nomen for acting as beta during what was an especially frenetic time for her at work. Her post this week concerns one of writers' frequent bugaboos—guilt. The post is called "Writing Woes: Guilt." We also added a link to our page of recommended reading for the article "Fanfiction: the Infinite Free Buffet" by Alexandra Rowland._

_Next week, I'll post the latest installment in my Six-Crossed Knot series (All Souls Trilogy fandom). The story is called Illusion's Voice. On October 23, I'll return to Caffrey Conversation with an Arkham Files story, the Sands of Abydos. October 23 is an auspicious day. It marks the 10th anniversary of the premiere of White Collar and the 5th anniversary of Complications, my first story in Caffrey Conversation. It's celebration time! __As for Neal and Sara's Christmas adventure, that story is coming in December. Will they be in New York? With a title of Italian Masquerade, it doesn't sound likely._

_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation__  
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Night Music board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


End file.
